Harry, of House Potter
by Ruairi J.L
Summary: When Voldemort disappears without a trace, Harry will track him to the ends of the Earth and beyond. Even to the ends of summer, for winter is coming. But can he withstand the political and violent barrage that is flung his way when Houses Stark and Lannister cross blades? Or will he play the Game of Thrones and perish?
1. Harry, I

**Harry, I**

* * *

It was the day that doomed a nation.

With a bang like cannon blast, Harry landed on a thatch of grass near the edge of an ancient forest. He was already hunkered down, one palm flat against the moist earth beneath him, another clasped tightly around his wand. Immediately, he jerked his head upwards and sniffed the air, smelling the pungent odour of decomposing flesh. He wrinkled his nose as his eyes met the cause of the disturbance; a tuft of smoke rose from a mangled pile of corpses, heaved together and set alight.

He hadn't been expecting this. Were there people here, but only savages and barbarians? Now that it was confirmed this world was inhabited, he certainly hoped not. In any case, it wasn't a friendly welcoming feast.

_Despite the fire, of course, _he thought.

A scream rent him from his thoughts. Narrowing his eyes, Harry jumped upright and dashed into the tree-line, where he took cover behind a brazen trunk of black brier. He then followed the source of the commotion to a spot in the undergrowth, through which he could see the outline of a modest hamlet, burning in the mid-afternoon air. He grimaced as the outline of a young woman came into focus, one being roughly handled by four hulking attackers.

She was not naked, but given their best efforts, that would soon be on the table. Her rags barely covered a skinny figure, and her hair was unkempt and dirty. She bit sharply on one's finger, drawing blood, and kicked another between the legs, only to receive a punch from an armoured fist for her trouble.

Harry jolted up, but hesitated. _Damn it, Hermione said if I interfere... _

"Help!" the girl screamed, voice cracking as tears laced her words.

_Fuck what Hermione said, _Harry growled. He might not know these people or their motives, but he had no desire to care. Their intentions were clear enough and they had to be stopped. If he would be in the process of breaking a law, offending a powerful ruler or just sticking his nose in where it wasn't wanted, he would accept the price as necessary. He drew his wand, despite knowing the dangers of casting magic in a place such as this. The inter-dimensional rift would destabilise, so ideally he wouldn't need to do so.

_But that looks unlikely,_ he thought distastefully, staring at the scene before him. _Tommy boy, you can wait another ten minutes. _

Without thinking, he silently ran to confront the attackers, killing two in quick succession with cutting curses. A third, the man grappling with the girl by now, did not notice, but the fourth did. He looked around in anger, then shock, as a jet of bludgeoning light hit him square in the face. By now Harry had the fourth man's attention, and he was plainly terrified. He had seen that last spell and now drew a dagger in fear, using the woman as a human shield.

"Y-you! What in Seven Hells are you?! Stay away from me!"

Harry smiled wickedly. "None of your concern, ser, but maybe you shouldn't pick on defenceless women. _Diffindo!"_

The would-be rapist's arm was cast off at the elbow, causing him to howl in agony as he clutched a bleeding stump. The arm holding the dagger at his victim's throat was Harry's target, and he was understandably pleased with his aim. His target had been in a position to kill, which was why Harry had dealt with him so severely.

Not that he also didn't deserve it.

Harry cast _stupefy_ this time. If the man bled out, so be it. If not, he would be, ah, _stunted_ for the rest of his life and that would be punishment enough. Unless the indigenous people had a cure for such ailments, but judging from their tools and primitive architecture, he very much doubted that was the case. These people clearly weren't past horse-drawn carts, let alone advanced to the reattachment of limbs with their medical research.

He grimaced at the ripple of purple arcane energy that briefly surged into existence, before flittering out again like a spark of electricity. Really, he shouldn't have done that. It was bad enough that he'd attacked four people without warning, no matter the situation. It was worse that he had resorted to using magic instead of something less dangerous, like the blade.

The woman did not seem to notice the momentary split in space-time. Her gaze was fixed on a spot close to her feet as she lay curled on the dirt, only broken by a sudden shift of her head in his direction.

"Look out!" she screamed.

Harry ducked on impulse and just felt a lick of steel pass above his head. He had already noticed, but was grateful for the shout nevertheless. With a twirl, he twisted to the side and slammed his fist into his attacker's chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. On his long journey, Harry had become quite proficient in Krav Maga, Aikido and Nunjitso, including training with various types of blade and other, blunt, weapons.

Now, he stood before a giant of a man, swathed in grey and shaped like stone. His face was unkempt and he had a matted mane of flaming hair. At least six feet and framed with bulging muscle, Harry was amazed this man had even felt his attack. He had been working out daily for over five years, but this enormous warrior seemed a thing of Celtic myth. In his hand was a huge double-sided axe, stained with blood and made from glistening steel.

The beast quickly regained his composure. "You, you craven runt," he spat. "It's for women with saggy tits to fight with sorcery, so it is. Show us you can fight like a man before dying a man."

Harry said nothing as he sheathed his wand and drew the sword that he had taken to keep slung across his shoulders. One never knew when old Tommy might pop up with a new Horcrux or a creature impervious to magic, so he was sure Gryffindor did not mind his sword actually having a purpose other than being ornamental once again. The rapist eyed the sparkling gems hungrily, licking his lips.

"That'll fetch some mighty fine dragons, t'will. I'll be a rich man soon."

"Rich with fear," Harry remarked, holding the sword double-handed. He held the hilt inches from his right shoulder and point aimed directly at his opponent, his arms bent comfortably and his legs ready to spring in any direction. It was a stance that gave him leverage for a quick strike or precise block, depending on which might be required.

The man attacked him, yelling louder than the hounds of hellfire and damnation themselves. Harry didn't bother to block the vicious blow, however. As he knew, speed was greater than strength when one had energy to burn. And Harry was no slouch when it came to defending against larger opponents; he had plenty of experience, many times with the odds stacked numerically against him, and he had never backed down even once. Whether in his training or when fighting Tom, he had defeated larger opponents aplenty. This man was nothing save an idle pretender, if he were honest. Thus, it was with a great anticlimax that he nimbly sidestepped, severed the man's Achilles tendon, sliced off his hand and drove the sword of Gryffindor through his heart, all in the space of several seconds.

Martial arts taught discipline, but in fighting itself one had to know the most basic and dangerous areas to strike. Pressure points, arteries, sensitive zones, they were all weapons that could be used in battle. Harry had lost his persona as the 'Golden Boy of Gryffindor' with the deaths of several of his closest friends years ago. He was twenty five now, filled with anger towards Voldemort, and more than prepared to kill evil where it came. Of course, there were limits; he would never cast the killing curse due to the sheer _hatred_ required to make it work, and he would never torture a man or woman out of sheer vindictiveness. But in self defence? In situations where it was kill or be killed? No problem.

Harry wiped the sword free of blood and sheathed it. This time, he took a careful look around, ensuring there were no other surprises waiting in the form of would-be death. He approached the young woman and offered her a hand up. She looked at him with terrified eyes for a minute, but shakily accepted the proffered help.

Harry was still one for decorum and manners, even if he had lost his true innocence years ago. He smiled at her.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said. "I hope that you're alright, but I need to ask, whereabouts am I? Do you happen to have a map or could you give me directions?"

The woman shook her head once and fled as fast as her legs would carry her. Harry sighed as he watched her retreat. She had been through enough and casting another spell was simply not a good idea. He would have to think of something else. He didn't notice the trail of blood she left in her wake.

Harry found a crude road nearby, one which seemed to stretch both north and south as far as the eye could see. Noting that north would take him through at least a small section of the forest nearby, he decided on south. The chilling howls of wolves were not endearing.

He did pause momentarily to look for survivors from the village massacre, but found none. Judging from the fresh smoke, he guessed that the group he had attacked was only a small force, used to plundering larger targets. And if that girl was the only survivor but did not want his help, he wouldn't waste valuable time. He had more important issues to deal with, lest the world be completely destroyed.

Speaking of...

Harry quickly drew his wand and tapped it thrice at the tip. He cleared his throat and held said tip to his mouth.

"Ron, Mione, I seem to be in some sort of medieval society this time – yes, there are actually people here. I haven't seen much, but the little I have hasn't been promising. I stopped a group of men from attacking a young woman, but at the expense of keeping the portal stabilised. It looks like it's just me until I realign the device on this end, but I have no idea how big this place is. If it's as big as the Sixth Realm we found, it could take me weeks. Hopefully it won't be so bad.

"In any case, this is obviously the Seventh, the one we've never seen before. My worry is that since I've come across a hamlet which has been destroyed, there must be larger cities scattered around either the immediate area or in the distance. This land could be... substantial. Stick to the plan and contact me in twelve hours."

Report saved, Harry cleared his mind and focussed on the Wizarding World, similarly to the principles of apparition. He focused his attention solely on Hermione and Ron, chose a happy memory of holding his godson for the first time, and cast the spell.

"_Sequor patronum!" _

The stag appeared and disappeared in the breadth of a heartbeat; that was a clever little spell his genius Muggleborn friend had devised, one which, when cast, existed in the world for such a short period of time it would not affect the interdimensional magicks that had been discovered only four years ago.

Voldemort had moved his Horcrux from Nagini to something they had never found after realising the hunt was on; for that reason, his death was not final when Harry claimed the Elder Wand. He returned, resurrected by Death Eaters unknown, and announced his newest homecoming by storming the Ministry and killing Minister Shacklebolt, along with important department heads and most of the Wizengamot.

There was much to this story, including years of guerrilla warfare, but Harry thought it irrelevant by this stage. All that mattered was that Tom had somehow captured Saul Croaker, the head Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries. To the shock of a hugely diminished rebellion, Voldemort fled; using his own knowledge of dark magic and the wisdom of an _Imperiused_ Croaker, he was able to determine that the Veil in the Department of Mysteries was none other than an interdimensional rift, one which could only be activated through the use of what they now called a rift-stone.

The Veil _did_ kill, but only when not activated by one of these stones, as with Sirius. Harry didn't care who created the Veil or why, only that it existed and was an incredibly dangerous object. In fact, when they discovered what Voldemort had done Harry was seconds from destroying the rift himself; he was only stopped by Hermione's warning that such an action could tear a permanent hole in the fabric of the universe itself. Harry didn't understand the finer details; molecular, astrophysical and magical sciences were not his forte. He let Hermione handle the science and instead volunteered himself to travel in search of Voldemort, worried that the mad bastard might kill them all from the other side.

That kick-started a game of cat and mouse, one he determined to win. The Veil spat out its traveller in a random location, but in a _reasonably _close vicinity of its other-dimensional counterpart. This meant Harry had to search for the device to get home, along with any rift-stones that existed in this dimension. One, a dark red colour, would take him to the Wizarding World. He carried a spare just in case. The others, orange through violet on the optic spectrum, would bring him to a dimension they had already discovered. The seventh, violet, was for this world, but they had been unable to find any violet stone until several days ago. It seemed somebody had either lost or destroyed four of the six, with Voldemort stealing the final one for himself.

_Almost four years of this chase and we finally have the final stone,_ Harry pondered. _Just wait, Tom. Soon we'll have this world mapped and you'll have nowhere left to hide. I'm going to kill you for everything you've done. _

Harry had watched many of his loved ones die over the past eight years, many falling to more cruel incantations than the quick release of the killing curse. His resolve had been hardened, his fervour would not wane; there was a madman to be put down, and he would strike the final blow. If he had to capture him until his friends at home could locate the final Horcrux, so be it. If Voldemort had the missing soul anchor here with him, Harry would find it.

He walked along the stony path that was laid out before him, ready to spring into a position of hiding if he spotted any travellers. There were none, however. He passed several farms that had been put to the torch, probably by the same band of outlaws he had encountered. There were no animals in their fields, with many either stolen or slaughtered. He would keep this pace until he found a town or city, he told himself. There was enough food in the pouch he kept on his belt to last for several weeks, but that was a worst-case scenario.

He tugged his cloak around his chest tightly. Wherever he was, it was bloody cold. It even snowed lightly for a few minutes, a splash of white against a grey background of cloud. He couldn't cast a self-warming charm, unfortunately.

The problem with magic was complex. Simply put, the Unspeakables had discovered wand magic was only feasible in their realm – in the Wizarding World. Casting a spell drew energy from the universe – it had something to do with atoms that did not exist in the five other dimensions they explored. So when one used magic through the rift, it drew energy from the Wizarding World, which caused tears similar to the one he had seen earlier. This destabilised the portal so that nobody could travel through until it was realigned, which required finding the rift on both sides and lining up the appropriate stones.

Harry didn't know what might happen if one attempted travel through a collapsing rift, but Hermione had told him it was nothing good, so they never attempted to find out. They had already lost Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan in finding out how dangerous it was casting magic 'abroad', as they called it. Both men had used Fiendfyre after spotting Voldemort, but the enormous amount of power required had collapsed in on them, crushing both and vaporising the entire reality. Hermione destroyed the stones for that reality afterwards, stating in no uncertain terms they could never try to go back.

This was the major advantage that Voldemort had. Somehow, he figured out a way to use magic but not put himself in danger. It was a huge pain in the ass to be on the back foot, a problem that needed to be solved before they could attack Snakeface directly in this realm.

In short, their problems were many and far-reaching. Harry needed to find the portal so that Hermione and Ron could join him, so that was top priority. Ideally, he was searching for areas with a strong magical residue, but nothing stuck out just yet. All he could see was farmland, rocky outcrops and long, winding trails into the wilderness east and west.

He was interrupted in his musing by a speck on the horizon, one that threw up a huge mound of dust. As he watched, this grew larger and larger, until he realised it was a company of men or women atop horses. He moved to hide, but found there was nothing to dive behind. Retreating would take too long and he would be seen, only then there would be a cause for suspicion.

With a sigh and nod, he readied himself for this confrontation. Hopefully there would be no bloodshed this time, but if these people were affiliated with the bandits he had killed...

He eyed the banner carefully. It was of a wolf on a white background. They soon surrounded him.

"You there, halt!"

Harry had not been moving, so he could only raise his hands in mock surrender. If worse came to worst, he could risk more magic to blind these people and then flee.

"What's your business walking on the Kingsroad alone?" the leader asked. He was a man with flowing dark hair and a beard to match, tall and muscular, with a huge greatsword upon his back.

Harry swallowed. "My village was attacked and destroyed by bandits. I was able to kill a few and escape, but now I've nowhere to go. It's a few miles that way." He pointed over his shoulder.

The man's eyes narrowed. "We've heard of these brigands and were riding to grant them the king's justice. They've been a thorn in our side for many a week. Am I to believe a single man dispatched the lot of them?"

"For what it's worth, I only encountered five," Harry admitted, trying to look embarrassed. "And I caught them by surprise. An enemy is vulnerable to even one opponent when you fight from the shadows."

"Trickery and cowardice," one man spat. He was young, perhaps still a teenager, but he looked full of menace. Harry narrowed his eyes in response, but was given no room to speak.

"Mind your tongue, Greyjoy," an even younger boy said. This one could be no older than fourteen, to Harry's shock. What the hell was this group doing with someone so young if they were hunting down bandits? He began to wildly reassess his initial impression of this land; perhaps it was commonplace for young boys to learn how to fight. He would have said the same thing for girls, but too many feudal societies had placed more stock in men as warriors, and he saw no women with this group.

"Both of you be silent," the lead man said firmly, drawing instant hush. "What is your name, man?"

"Harry."

"Of which house?"

Harry blinked. He knew many ancient cultures put stock in family power, and assumed this had something to do with his name. Did they mean surname? Bracing himself to run, he answered hesitantly:

"House Potter."

"I have never heard the name," the man said, after thinking for a minute. "And if you were lowborn, you would have said. My impression is that you are either lying to me, or your house is one of little renown."

_Damn it, that was a trick question! _Harry realised. Nonetheless, he felt a bristle of anger at the man playing down his surname. He hadn't a hope of knowing the significance, but it still annoyed him. "I'm not lying, ser," he said.

"This is Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North," said an older rider with white whiskers. "You shall address him with proper courtesy, good man."

The words 'good man' were anything but. But Harry nodded and bowed respectfully. "My apologies, Lord Stark," he said, hoping that was enough. It was impolite to refer to a lord by his first name, and both 'Warden Stark' and 'Lord Warden' just sounded incorrect.

Lord Stark appeared satisfied. "Thank you. It's good you aren't bereft of manners, though I still doubt your story, I'm afraid. You will come with us, and show us these bandits you've slain. If you're found to be lying, I'll assume you're working in corroboration with the outlaws and deliver you the king's justice myself."

Harry's eyes were drawn to the sword on his back and he immediately understood what that would entail. It was a good thing he wasn't lying, not that he would have made an easy target under any circumstances. He nodded once.

"Of course, my lord. Shall I walk ahead and lead you there?"

The old man with whiskers didn't seem to like that question. He frowned, apparently wondering whether Harry was being sarcastic or genuine. In truth it was a little of both, but mostly the latter. Lord Stark brought forth an unused horse, explaining that several of his men had been killed already. Harry apologised, but the lord merely waved his hand and thanked him for the concern.

Harry knew a bit about riding, but he was still very uncomfortable as he hoisted himself into the saddle. He drew a few looks from the people around him, including Lord Stark, and snuck glances to see their posture. He readjusted himself, trying to make the change look as natural as possible. It must have worked, because Lord Stark seemed satisfied.

"Lead on, Harry Potter."

Harry was dreadfully embarrassed as he tried to steer his horse straight, until finally Lord Stark took pity on him and rode alongside, the rest of his men bringing up the rear.

"If you're being honest with me, you and I needs must have a one-to-one conversation after this," he said matter-of-factly.

Harry took a moment to ensure he understood exactly what the man was telling him, before nodding. His speech would take a while to become accustomed to. "Of course, my lord. We have much to discuss."

Finally, the village came back into view. Harry saw that most of the smoke had billowed, and the smell filled his nostrils with itchiness. It was choking, and he wrapped a black bandana around his nose and mouth. Hermione had given him one in case of poisonous fumes; they had encountered those in the third portal, and the fabric was enchanted to repel any hazardous gases. Lord Stark did not seem to have one, and he looked amused by the repellent cloth.

"A rider all in black is frightening for many," he said with humour, "but I fear that mask hides your face. The tales may not make note of who you are."

Harry gave a small smile through the would-be gasmask. "It's a good thing I'm not interested in being remembered in stories, my lord."

Lord Stark looked thoughtful as he dismounted. His gaze hardened as he came across the first of the bodies, and then sharpened into a look of sorrow and disgust as he encountered the smouldering pile that Harry had spotted earlier.

"Gods be damned," said one of the riders, while several swore harshly.

"I look forward to giving those who did this a taste of my blade," Greyjoy said.

"Ah, but I thought you preferred girls?" said the young teenager, who appeared remarkably undisturbed. His comment gained a few laughs, but the mood was much too sombre to break. "In any case, I believe those are your bandits over there."

Lord Stark had indeed found the men that Harry had killed, and beckoned for both Harry and the man with whiskers to approach and dismount. They did so.

"These are the men you killed?" he asked Harry gravely.

Harry nodded. "Yes. Several should bear wounds to the chest and neck from my sword. One is missing an arm. Another should have a crushed face, from the heel of my boot."

The third man, whose name was Ser Rodrik, confirmed the injuries. But he had a question for both his companions. "How do we know these were bandits and not men guarding the town, my lord? I hope our friend here speaks the truth, but I have a queer feeling. It feels as though these men have been cursed."

Harry nearly started. That was true, though not in the way Ser Rodrik was thinking. He did not have any desire to explain that, however. "There should be a young woman hiding somewhere," he said. "I don't know where she ran to, but I saved her from these men. She can confirm my story."

Lord Stark put the word out, advising his men to be cautious of any ambushes. After searching with the man for near an hour, the younger boy suddenly burst it, exclaiming: "we've found her, father, but you'd better come quickly!"

Harry and Lord Stark dashed to follow what transpired to be his son, called Robb. Some of the men had been vocally opposed to Harry searching with their lord alone, but when he relinquished his sword and the daggers he had hidden, they eased somewhat. Harry only did so because he had no desire to start a scuffle and he could always stun the men and reclaim them later if need be, though he was truthfully trying to avoid _any_ situation where magic might be required.

Upon arriving at a half-collapsed cottage, he could see why Robb requested they hurry. The young woman was lying on the floor, cradling the charred body of a young man. She was bleeding profusely from a deep cut to her thigh.

_Damn it! How did I miss that? She didn't even limp away earlier!_ Harry thought, disgusted with himself. He almost moved to heal her, but hesitated, remembering that was more Hermione's area. He could heal scrapes and bruises, but this wound looked like it needed a blood replenishing potion, disinfectant and a spell to close the wound that he didn't know. Ser Rodrik misread his move and shook his head gently.

"No, lad. No amount of bandaging can save her now," he said quietly.

Two of Lord Stark's men were holding her gently, trying to pry the corpse away, but she never let go even once. Eventually, he stooped down and relieved them, cradling her head.

"Tell me your name," he said softly.

She didn't answer him, or even look to him. Her eyes had found Harry.

"Thank... you..." she whispered, before passing.

There was a painful silence. Lord Stark eased her head onto the floor and ordered the two bodies be buried at once, along with the other victims of the attack. Then he decreed the bandits be burned and their ashes scattered.

Harry was silent as Lord Stark drew him to one side. Ser Rodrik, Robb and Greyjoy followed. He was disappointed in himself for not saving her life, but would not dwell on it much longer. She had refused his help, and it had taken a hundred men or more almost an hour to find her. He would have had no chance by himself. And as he thought earlier, he didn't know enough to heal a wound like that. It was more self-reassurance, he knew, from seeing an innocent life fade away before his eyes.

_Another one_, he thought bitterly.

"It appears I owe you an apology," Ser Rodrik said, shifting hesitantly. "I'm sorry for doubting your story."

"It's fine," Harry said, not unkindly. "I would have been just as suspicious if I were you."

"How could five men have caused so much damage?" Greyjoy asked bitterly. "There must be more hiding about."

"Enough, Theon," Ser Rodrik scolded. "Haven't you had your fill of bloodshed for the day? It's over. Move past it."

Lord Stark nodded and addressed Harry; "I think we should have that talk now."

Harry mirrored his expression and followed him, as the other men led the grave-digging and others began to re-saddle their horses. Lord Stark handed him back his weapons, which he equipped with a practiced flourish. He had taken down his mask after coming across the woman, but was tempted by the smoke to use it again. He refrained.

"First off, I would like to know who you really are," Lord Stark said, when they were out of eye and earshot.

Harry was confused, but his heart skipped a beat. "You heard my tale, Lord Stark. Why doubt me when it's been proven true?"

"Oh, I have no doubt you killed those men, nor that you saved that peasant woman's life," he said airily, "but House Potter? There is no such family. I am Warden of the North and know every family from Sunspear to The Wall. But tell me, where are you from?"

Harry blinked. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted.

"If you say Sunspear I will cut you down for lying to me outright. The men and women of Dorne are dark-skinned, and you have the complexion of a northerner."

"I wasn't going to," Harry said, thinking on the spot. "I told you, my home was-"

"Here? Then what was the name of that woman?"

"I-"

"How many people were there in this village? How far south is Winterfell? How far north The Wall? Answer me!" he demanded, and Harry saw something steely enter his gaze.

With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair. It was a good thing he no longer needed glasses, else he would have tipped them off right off the bat. Thank god for Hermione and her potions. His genius friend had saved his life many times in many different ways.

"I'll answer those questions if you answer one of mine. Why did you pretend to believe my story in the first place?"

Lord Stark did not miss a beat, and Harry had to admire the man's tenacity and strength of character. "This village had to be investigated and I didn't want you running off. Now tell me. Are you a spy, perchance? An assassin, mayhaps? Whom do you serve?"

"I serve all of mankind," Harry said, eliciting a blink. "Maybe you should have a seat."

"Maybe you should speak with great haste," Lord Stark warned, eying him cautiously and staying put.

_The Imperius Curse would be so much handier in this situation, but I'd rather gain his trust without using magic. But at the rate this is going, what choice do I have? If magic of some sort doesn't exist here, he'll think I'm cracked when I tell him the truth. Or that I'm lying. And I don't know which of those would be worse. Both would end with a sword through my gut._

"Tell me what the word _magic_ means to you," Harry ordered, satisfied by the look of surprise on Lord Stark's face. His guise of command had grown more effective and apparently the older man had not been expecting the conversation to change in this way.

"What does that-"

"_Everything," _Harry intoned, annunciating perfectly.

Lord Stark looked thoughtful, though more wary by half. "It is commonly believed to exist by the people throughout the world and the old gods _do _speak of skinchangers and Greensight, the ability to see the future and the past. There are many other forms believed real, but I have never witnessed any firsthand."

Harry nodded slowly, then nearly made the man fall over when he whipped his wand out and transfigured a rock into a stony chair. Not changing the material made the spell easiest to cast. Grimacing, Harry prepared for the flicker and was not disappointed when it crackled a second longer than before, then disappeared. A warning that he was overdoing it.

"What in the name of-"

"I am a magician," Harry declared. "A wizard, born of magic and able to manipulate the world through this device." He held up his wand. Even if the man took it away from him, he had a few spares in the expanded bag shrunken and stuffed in his shoe. "I was born this way and could not change it if I wanted, which I never would. I am not of this world."

"N-not of this world?" Lord Stark asked, eyes wide. He regained his composure and steely gaze. "Tell me what you mean, damn it! Else I'll have my men shoot you full of arrows."

Harry laughed, again surprising the lord. "Good luck with that. I could bat their arrows aside in the blink of an eye and kill every man jack of you without breaking a sweat. How do you think I cut my way through five armoured brigands? But I won't do either of those things. I want your help.

"I came to this land in search of a vicious tyrant who has fled justice in my home. He murdered many of my friends, including my family, and found a way to escape from our own world. To spare you one nasty headache, I'll avoid the details. In short, he is here because of magic, and it's through magic he'll be brought to justice. When that happens, I'll leave you in peace and never return."

Lord Stark took time to collect his thoughts. When he spoke, it was not filled with disbelief as Harry expected, but patience and even understanding. "That sounds a mighty tale, but most would not believe it. Answer me this question, why are you in the north in particular?"

"I don't know where the hell I am," Harry shrugged, throwing his arms wide. "The magic doesn't let me choose where I appear or when. All I know is I'm here, not where here is."

Lord Stark eyed him critically. "I feel you need to see a map. If your fugitive has escaped to this land, he could be anywhere. You might spend a lifetime searching."

Harry's heart sank. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. But still... "I did save your villages from suffering anymore. You would have gotten here too late. I killed the men responsible. Surely that counts for something."

"Ah, yes: why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you get involved? Did you think the man you seek was among them?"

Harry's temper flared, and it showed on his face. "I'm not a heartless bastard, Lord Stark. If I come across evil, I _will_ destroy it."

Lord Stark seemed satisfied. "Good. You'll have to forgive me for not believing everything you say just yet. We needs must travel to Winterfell, a three day journey. On our way you'll tell me more about yourself, and I'll instruct you in the laws of our land and the customs you are expected to adhere to. We will also think of a more appropriate cover story for you to follow and until you know what to do, you may stay with mine kin."

"Why are you offering me so much?" Harry asked, shocked.

"Because I believe you are an agent of justice," the lord said smugly. "As am I. And you _did_ save many more people suffering and helped put those who died to rest. There is a debt there and I would repay you. You have my word as a man of honour."

"And I accept," Harry said, wishing he knew Legillimency so he might read the man's intentions. But he trusted his resolve and desire to do good. If that was a lie, he wouldn't have come so far out of his way to save common villagers, nor would he have ordered their bodies buried honourably. "It seems I have a lot to learn about this land. But one thing I'll tell you now is that, when I can find the right time, two of my friends will be joining me here. And if I ever slip off alone, it's to use magic to speak with them. Please keep that between us. In fact, I'd ask you to give me an oath that swears you to secrecy."

"I swear it," Lord Stark said, nodding. "Although I would ask you leave to inform my wife and two eldest sons of your situation."

"Your sons are both here, aren't they?"

Lord Stark answered that they were.

"Then we can speak to them together. And I'd like to keep it that way until I'm able to meet other people you wish to tell. Most would think I'm nuts."

"I crave your pardon?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry, most would think me crazy, I mean."

"For the nonce, I'll tell Robb and Jon, by your leave," Lord Stark said. "You've met Robb, while Jon is at the rear of the column with Jory, the captain of my guards."

"Why is he there?" Harry frowned, thinking this man would keep his sons close in this type of situation.

"He chose to ride there willingly as he's a bastard."

Harry gaped. "I _do_ have a lot to learn, don't I?"

* * *

**:Author's Notes:**

Allow me to thank you for reading, first of all.

But on an important note, this story is in-progress. Twenty chapters consist of one 'part', which is the equivalent of one of the books in ASOIF's timeline. I nearly have part one finished and will update every week or two. Once it's completed, I'll work out a regular updating schedule. After part one is finished, however, I intend to finish my main story Double Jeopardy before moving to part two, which should take me into the new year by a little bit. Hopefully I'll have enough to keep you going until then.

Next, Harry is not the only POV character. Jaime, Tyrion, Arya, Robb, Varys and Cersei will all have at least one or two each. The trade-off is that Harry's chapters will be anywhere from 6000-10,000 words long, whereas everybody else will have 3000-4000 words. This keeps it nicely balanced. And Harry is still the main point of focus, so he'll appear in the vast majority of these other chapters.

Finally, Harry's history from DH to now will unravel as the story goes on. Don't expect an exposition dump. What you have in this chapter is the most I'll ever throw at you in one go. I'm only bringing this up because I know curious people may wonder in reviews what he's gone through, so I wanted to let you know in advance: it'll be explained overtime.


	2. Arya, I

**Arya, I**

* * *

Arya was hiding when her father returned.

It wasn't out of fear or sadness, but a touch of boredom. She'd been practicing her needlework and had again been told by Septa Mordane that her work was shoddy. She didn't care. Arya was not like her older sister Sansa, who, for all the world, may as well have been the Mother herself. The praise lavished on her by the Septa, their mother, the whole of Winterfell, was sickening.

Arya had long since given up on the idea of being a 'lady', almost as much as actually keeping her stitches straight for once. It was a touch more interesting to hide from the entire castle as they searched for you, she reflected from her hiding spot. So what if father had said a dangerous group of brigands were on the march, burning and pillaging at will? She had no plans to leave the gates of Winterfell, just escape from her needlework.

Even little Bran was with her. She couldn't climb half as well as he could, despite being two years older. It seemed that she was second in everything to someone or other! But she didn't hold it against Bran. Not him. Sansa, yes, but not Bran.

The younger boy giggled from his spot in the bushes. "We could hide here forever."

"We would run out of food," Arya said. "But I'd sneak us ham and chicken from the kitchens when no one's looking."

Their game was sadly interrupted. A signal was given throughout the castle, one which heralded the return of her lord father and his party. They had gone out only seven days ago, in search of the bandits responsible for killing father's people. Eagerly, she ran and hid behind a cart near the gates, hoping to hear stories but still wary of her mother searching for her.

Maybe Jon would have something exciting to speak of. She loved Jon, possibly more than any of her full brothers and certainly more than her only sister. He looked like her, with dark eyes and hair to match. His build was slender and he was lean and fast, just like Arya. Around Jon, she felt as though she truly belonged.

First came the flag-bearer of Lord Stark's company, carrying the banner of their House; a Direwolf running on a field of ice, appropriately matching their words, _winter is coming._

When the entire company was through the gates she looked and frowned. There was a man riding alongside father, one she had never seen before. He looked to be above twenty but below thirty, with raven-coloured hair and a strong posture. He was not as big as father, nowhere near, but he still had muscle and wisdom in his eyes, eyes that were... emerald? That was unusual.

When he dismounted after father, she was able to see the outline of a thin scar upon his brow, shaped like a fork of lightning. The sword at his waist was splendid, framed with jewels and made from silver steel. It looked as cold as the snows of winter, yet more royal than anything she had ever seen. His body was wrapped in a thick cloak, one finely made, and he wore warm-looking boots on his feet. Whoever this young man was, he had money and power. Or was he a famous black brother, come to them from the Wall?

"Young lady, what have I told you about hiding?"

Arya gulped at the sharp touch of her mother's hand on her shoulder. She had forgotten to be aware of her surroundings, too engrossed by the man in black. She looked around, smiling nervously. "Don't get caught?"

Lady Stark narrowed her eyes, but the expression was ruined by a dim smile upon her lips. She shook her head. "Sometimes I wonder what we're going to do with you. Run along, I'm sure you want to see your father. But we _will_ be speaking of this later."

Arya nodded and hastily departed. She ran to meet her father. He was surrounded by the men of Winterfell, such as Jory, Ser Rodrik and even her older brothers. They had a hundred armoured spearmen for company, but she wasn't intimidated. She was too used to being outsized and outnumbered. Idly, she saw her mother scolding Bran in the background and flashed him an apologetic grin. Then, she turned back to her father.

"Arya," he said affectionately, ruffling her hair with a smile. "I'm glad to see you well, child. What trouble have you been getting yourself into?"

"Nothing!" she said quickly, too quickly. Her eyes were drawn to the man in black, who gave her a curious look before turning to speak with Robb and Jon.

Eddard caught her looking. "Tell your mother we have a guest. He's to be given good quarters and clothing, and he'll be dining with us tonight."

Arya raised her eyebrows, but did as she was told. Her father was in a serious mood; it showed on his face. Her mother frowned when she relayed the news, but left to carry out the instructions without a word. Lady Stark ran the household as much as her husband did, but when he was as sombre as such, she knew the matter was one of great importance.

"Who is he?" Bran later asked, looking at the man with awe. The two of them were hiding again, watching as the man in black followed their father into his quarters. "Do you think he's a knight from the capital?"

"No, stupid," Arya said. "Father went north, not south."

"I'm not stupid," Bran grumbled.

"Are too."

"Am not!"

"Stupid Bran," she said, sticking her tongue out at him. Bran growled and dived for her, but Arya was prepared and leapt away from his grasp. He chased her for half an hour through the courtyard and along the walls, until their mother announced it was time to sup.

The table was quiet, save for their father speaking with the mysterious young man in low tones. He stopped abruptly when the children entered and rose to meet them.

"Children," said he, "this is Lord Harry, of House Potter. He is our guest and you will treat him with every courtesy and respect. Do you understand?"

Arya winced as he especially directed the last point towards her more than the others. Nonetheless, he received six nods for his trouble and appeared satisfied. The family sat as one and offered up some prayers to the Old Gods, before beginning to eat. She watched this Lord Harry with interest, noting that he did not seem to know the words for their blessing. He was from the North, wasn't he? She thought most northern lord kept the Old Gods. And House Potter? Maester Luwin had never mentioned them before in his lessons.

"What brings you to Winterfell, Lord Harry?" her mother asked.

The man was well-mannered, at least. He politely swallowed and rubbed his mouth with a napkin before answering courteously.

"I had been hoping to speak with Lord Stark, my lady. I know it may be confusing to you, so allow me to explain."

He took a sip of water and spoke, at her bequest.

"My House is relatively new, my lady. Some months ago I came to Lord Stark with a request; our homes on the peninsula of Sea Dragon Point had fallen into... disarray. We were attacked by a group of bandits, who stole much of our gold and killed the lord in charge. Lord Stark gave me power of vassalage, so that I might rebuild the towns and govern them under his authority as Warden of the North.

"That is what I've been doing ever since, but unfortunately, the same bandits returned only three weeks ago. Rather than allow them to escape, I sent a raven to Lord Stark and tracked the godless bastards – pardon me, my lady – through the Wolfswood with several of my watchmen. We found them and dispatched them in the night after they burned another village. Lord Stark found me on the road the next day, and bid me return with him to Winterfell, so that I could rest and replenish my numbers."

There was a silence as those present digested this tale more so than the food they barely ate. Catelyn frowned.

"How many of your men did you lose?" she asked.

Lord Harry sighed and bowed his head. "All twenty of them. When we attacked we took them by surprise, but they had a second force on the other side of the village, who caught us unawares. Those men were all good fighters, loyal to a point and more honourable people than ever I've known. I was able to bury them before your lord husband found me, but alas... I shall mourn them."

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell exchanged a look. Arya felt sorry for the man; to lose so many friends in one fight, which was to save others, must have been terrible. She didn't speak, but Bran did.

"You tracked them through the Wolfswood?" he asked, awed. "That must have been scary!"

Lord Harry gave a thin smile. "My father taught me to hunt in those woods many years ago, my lord. I have experience tracking vermin. When you put the two together, it mightn't be quite as difficult as you'd think."

"Please," Lord Stark intoned. "It isn't necessary for you to address the children with such decorum, though I appreciate the thought. First names will suffice."

"Very good, my lord," Harry said, nodding at him. "Maybe when you're older, if your father allows it, we can hunt together..."

"Bran."

"Bran," Lord Harry said, nodding. "Brandon is a good name."

The young boy flushed with pride and smiled, returning to his food with renewed vigour. Arya looked down at her soup. She had barely touched a thing, but forced herself to swallow a few mouthfuls and eat a chunk of bread. Robb and Jon were being suspiciously silent. Rickon was understandable – he was too young to care. And she rolled her eyes at Sansa. One look was all she needed to see the prim young lady was _smitten__._ She kept shooting him shy looks, which he either ignored or did not notice.

Arya could have gagged.

"You must be tired, Lord Harry," her mother said. "Perhaps we shouldn't disturb you so."

Lord Harry waved that concern away. "Nonsense, my lady. Your meal is wonderful and some sleep tonight will do me good, but I am not wounded or an inch from death. By all means, ask me all that you like. I don't wish to be rude."

"What was it like killing those men?" Arya suddenly asked.

"Arya!" her mother snapped, glaring. Her father shot her a silencing look, as Robb and Jon winced at the whole situation. She bowed her head in admonishment.

Harry was quiet for a moment and she thought that she'd blown her chance, but to everybody's surprise, he answered after some deliberation.

"Killing is... not something I enjoy. It's not something any sane person should enjoy, even the most veteran soldier in any army. It's disgusting and inhuman and I'd rather it didn't exist in the world."

"Then why do it?" Robb asked quietly, speaking at last. He didn't look awed or intimidated, Arya thought, but seemed to view Lord Harry more like... an equal? That surprised her, since Robb tended to be shy around strangers, especially the highborn.

Harry looked over at him with a wan smile. His eyes were heavy with sorrow. "Because if we don't root out the fires that burn, they'll scorch the world to ash."

"Poignant, yet true," father said. He raised his glass and clinked it together with Lord Harry's. "A man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, yet he who would kill for joy or amusement is the worst type of man. Never take pride in death, but do only what is necessary to preserve peace."

The men at the table all toasted to that, even mother.

The rest of the night passed without major incident; the adults talked among themselves for a time, with Robb and Jon getting involved on occasion. At one point Sansa asked Lord Harry how he had gotten his scar, and he told them quietly he didn't know. It had happened when he was very young, when his parents were still alive. Arya snorted with laughter at how Sansa blushed when speaking, but sobered up at his harrowing explanation.

As fascinating as the man was, as nice as he seemed, she was bored. She didn't like not being involved when mother and father spoke to a guest, even if she did understand why they did so. When the meal ended her mother whisked the younger children off to bed, also excusing Lord Harry to his own chambers. Arya was quite fed up, determining to get her own share of tales.

Arya waited for her mother to fall asleep before making her move. She quietly snuck out of the bedroom, careful not to wake any of her siblings or parents in their romms, and gently pushed open the door to Lord Harry's guest quarters. She would only stay if he were awake, she told herself. But he wasn't. He wasn't in the room at all, in fact. Frowning, she closed it and tiptoed into the courtyard, not bothering to wear shoes or even socks.

She found Lord Harry on a low part of the battlements and climbed up to him, keeping a weather eye for any of father's guards. He did not seem surprised to see her. On the contrary, he gave a smile and helped her onto the walkway, smiling in the moonlight.

"I thought you would come to me, little lady," he said with humour. "It seems you're more insatiable for tales of fighting than even your brothers."

"I only asked once!" she pouted, to which he gave a grin.

"Once was quite enough," he said. "I can see it on your face: the life your sister wishes for is one that strikes you as boring, and you'd much rather be playing with swords than learning how to sew."

"You spoke to Jon," she pointed out.

"I did," he nodded. "But I didn't really need to. I once knew a girl like you. She didn't like the life of a lady any more than you, and would constantly get into trouble for having a bit of fun."

"What happened to her?" Arya asked quietly, as Harry gazed into the dark horizon with a smile on his face and sparkling eyes.

"She died," he said, softer than anything. He shook his head after a minute, leaving her to wonder if she had pushed her luck too far yet again. But for the second time, he surprised her by smiling. "Don't be afraid to ask me questions, little lady. If there's anything I feel you shouldn't know I'll tell you so. Otherwise, you're free to ask whatever you may."

That set off a barrage of questioning. "How old are you? How many people have you killed? Did you fight in any great wars? How old is your House? Do you have family? Do-"

"One at a time," he laughed, holding up a hand. But his eyes danced with amusement. "I'll tell you what: I'll take those in order.

"My twenty fifth birthday-"

"Birthday? Is that what you call your name day?" she interrupted.

Lord Harry hesitated, and she could practically see the cogs turning in his head. It was curious. So much about him was curious!

"Yes, that's what I meant. Some call it differently. To answer your second question... I really don't know how many. Maybe twenty. As I said before, I take no joy in killing... but some men need to die for the world to be a safer place. I guess that links with my next answer – yes, I fought in a war, but I doubt you have heard of it. A madman, claiming to be a god, rose up and found himself a group of devoted followers. They terrorised my home, a land not of Westeros, before we put them to the sword. But their leader escaped, and is still on the run."

"You don't come from Westeros?" she asked with wide eyes. "Are you from Volantis? Or Braavos?"

"...Lys," he said quietly.

"You don't have the skin tone of a man from Lys," Arya noted.

Lord Harry smiled again. "My father was from there, but my mother was born east of the Stony Shore."

"South of where your home is," Arya pondered. "How did they meet?"

"Ah!" Lord Harry exclaimed lowly, laughing. "That's a tale I'd like answered myself someday, but I have no living relatives."

Arya looked at her shoes. How often would she keep putting her foot in her mouth? "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Lord Harry asked. She looked back, to see him screwing his face up at her. "I told you, ask what you will. I came to accept the deaths of my parents many years ago. I live at Sea Dragon Point and never adapted the Lyseni accent, despite travelling back there to fight for a few years. And to answer your next two questions together: I am the last of my House, one that began with my grandparents, who I never met."

"Do you have a sigil?"

Lord Harry gave her an odd look that she couldn't place, before nodding. Silently, he withdrew a folded piece of cloth that she recognised as an insignia and handed it to her. She looked at it, drinking in the details of a banner she'd never seen before. Across a quartered background of red and blue was a snow-white bird, some type of falcon, she thought. Beneath that, in simple runes, were the words:

_Flee no Evil._

She repeated them aloud.

Lord Harry nodded. "My House seems to find itself in trouble wherever it goes, so I adopted those words myself. I will never bow to adversity and never run from tyranny, but strike it down where I see it. Do you know the creature in the centre?"

"I thought it might be a... a falcon?" she asked, feeling dumb.

"A good guess, but off the mark," he replied. "It is a phoenix. A bird of everlasting fire," he added, seeing her confused look. "It's a near mythical creature, one pure of heart and soul. Its tears can heal any wound or sickness, but the bird only cries for someone who is equally as pure. When it reaches the time of death, it bursts into flame, before rebirthing from the ashes that are left."

"It can't die?" she whispered. "It sounds as impressive as the dragons!"

Lord Harry snorted, something she wasn't expecting. "It is much, _much_ more impressive than the dragons, my friend. Dragons can be killed, phoenixes cannot. And unlike a dragon, it will never turn on the man or woman it cares for, but aid them in times of need. The bird will literally drive away evil and blackness, and its song – yes, it sings – can bring a bloodthirsty warrior to tears and quell the fighting of thousands of men in a heartbeat."

"You speak as if you've seen one," Arya said, filled with wonder. The phoenix sounded like a beautiful creature and she dearly wanted to see one for real.

To her disappointment, he took the banner back again and moved to help her off the rampart. Before falling to the grass below, he smiled at her.

"I have."

Arya grew accustomed to Lord Harry's presence over the next few weeks. He seemed to have a lot of business with father, for the two were often seen together, talking in hushed voices. Lord Harry even joined him in his business of running the castle and his duties as Warden of the North. He rode with her brothers to see a deserter from the Night's Watch executed, and returned with the handful of direwolf pups they had found. Arya was smiling as Jon placed a pup of her own into her arms, but that redoubled when Lord Harry told her:

"As the sigil of your house, that pup will bring you great fortune and good will. You are very lucky."

She named the direwolf Nymeria.

Lord Harry dined with her family most nights, and every member seemed rather taken with him. Sansa still had her stupid crush, Bran loved hearing stories of the warriors he knew and Robb and Jon took to sparring with him several times a week, occasionally even joining him and father on their serious work. He knew a lot of unusual moves in the yard, flamboyant yet able to withstand the strength of even Ser Rodrik. Jon told her that he must have been trained in the Braavosi style of waterdancing, but he seemed adept in dozens of styles. Once, when Rodrik was able to disarm him and smile triumphantly, Lord Harry had knocked him down with a combination of punches and kicks to what he told her were sensitive areas, such as the liver. He didn't hurt Rodrik too badly, but made his point perfectly clear. He was a deadly warrior.

Even Rickon seemed to love spending time with him, and the babe barely took to strangers, although he began to be less of a stranger and more an uncle not by blood. The Stark children were all close to Ser Rodrik, Jory and Maester Luwin, but Lord Harry was soon staking a claim on such a position himself. When not training or spending a lot of time in the godswood, he mostly talked with Lord Stark, but he still had a friendly word for her whenever she wanted it. They spoke of the great houses, a topic in which he seemed to want to absorb as much information as possible. She reminded herself that he was not from Westeros, so it made sense that his education might be lacking. Still, she couldn't help but wonder...

"Why do you spend so much time in the godswood if you don't keep the old gods?" she asked one day.

He stiffened, but relaxed almost instantly. "What makes you think I don't keep the old gods? Have you been spying on me?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "I just... I saw you seem a bit confused when father said the blessing over dinner on your first night here. It was as though the words were strange to you."

Lord Harry seemed to deflate. He gave a heavy sigh and seemed to deliberate something inside his mind, before turning to her with a nod to himself. "The... truth is, I'm ignorant of the religions of Westeros. The old gods, the seven, all of them. I spend time in the godswood because I like quiet reflection and it helps me to understand the deities your family keeps."

"Not all of us," Arya corrected. "Mother keeps faith with the seven."

Lord Harry nodded. "I see. And what of you, Arya? Do you believe in the gods?"

Arya hesitated. She wasn't sure how to answer that. Her parents would probably scold her for saying she was not a theologian, but did the gods exist? Could she believe in almighty beings that gave Sansa good looks, but not her? That made Jon a bastard, but not Robb? That made her highborn, but not Mycah, the butcher's boy? She didn't understand, truth be told. And at nine, who could blame her?

Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Lord Harry patted her on the shoulder comfortingly, before apologising. "It's a lot to ask of you at such a tender age. Oftentimes I'm not sure whether I believe in any god. I've seen a lot of death and pain, suffering you can't imagine. Yet religion would have us believe that comes down to man, not the gods. I mostly choose to trust in myself and the people I love."

"Where are the people you love?" Arya asked suddenly. "Are they here, or back home?"

Lord Harry handed her a strawberry. "The last this summer, the trader told me."

She took a bite, finding it sweet and juicy. Perfectly ripe.

"My family is back home, though most would call them 'friends'."

"But not you?"

"No, not me," he shook his head. "They _are_ family. I love them and they I. I'm making plans for them to join me if your father allows it, but unless they decide to surprise me it won't be for a while."

"Do they surprise you often?"

"Yes," he smiled. "Yes, they do..."

He lapsed into silence, but before Arya could think of something to break the deadlock, Robb came for her.

"Mother and father are looking for us," he said. "Lord Harry, I think your presence is wanted as well."

The three of them left to find the lord and lady of the castle. As it transpired, something major had occurred in the capital. Arya didn't understand why as father chose not to tell them, but the king was riding to Winterfell. And with him was coming the entire royal court – the queen, their children and dozens of knights, musicians and fools.

Lord Harry gave her father a significant look and nodded, before gently grabbing Robb's arm and leading him outside. The younger boy did not protest and followed diligently, and Jon stalked after them as soon as he grew weary of her mother's frosty looks.

_One day,_ she thought, _one day I'm going to figure out everything about Lord Harry. I don't have a stupid crush like Sansa, but he has so many enticing stories! And now the king is coming here as well. Urgh, that means mother will have me dress like a ponce and behave sweetly to the royal family. _

"Can I be excused?" she asked politely.

Her father waved her off, and she yanked Bran outside with her, determined to spend at least one more day in the mud before the king arrived. She never heard her mother's groan as she fell face first into a mucky puddle, too full of mirth and too eager to chase Bran and pay him back in kind.

* * *

**:Author's Notes: **

_\- "Interesting, worried that harry may become a lapdog of the Starks but other then that i liked this chapter and now following it can't wait for the next chapter :)"_

Ned sees him as more of an equal and soon as a friend. Hopefully Harry doesn't seem too submissive - he's a man hardened by war and has more power than most anyone in the Seven Kingdoms by this stage. And thanks!

_\- "Interesting first contact between Ned and Harry and at least they come to a rapport. I think they will both work excellent together, they both are honorable and know the loss of loved ones. I cant wait to see how Harry will interact with the other characters and how he will shape Westeros._

_I have however some questions:_

_Will Voldemort support one side in Westeros or will he act on his own?_

_Where is this chapter in the ASOIF timeline?_

_And will Harry get his own ccastle with land and a lord titel?"_

I'm not going to say much about Voldemort's plans at this moment in time - that's more part of the 'unravelling' that I spoke of last chapter and I wouldn't want to spoil it on anyone. Both chapters are set just before the events of AGOT, although this one moves into that territory with the finding of the direwolves. Something may or may not happen with regards to a castle, but yes to the lordship. Ned trusts Harry and is willing to help him with his deception, knowing how dangerous magic can be (trust me, those two had a LOT to talk about in their three day journey to Winterfell), so he decides to make his position official and vouch for him as Warden of the North. This will also have a lot of unforeseen effects on the plot of ASOIF as we know it from canon.

Thanks all, for your wonderful reviews! Until next week!


	3. Jaime, I

**Jaime, I**

* * *

It was a fine day in King's Landing, but the king was not in a fine mood.

Intending to avoid him as much as possible, Jaime silently climbed to the steps to the crypt where Jon Arryn was rotting. He found his sister there and walked to her, ignoring the tolling bells outside. She looked beautiful, as she always did. Her beauty could turn the kingdom upside down on the best of days, but the worried look she bore slightly ruined the effect.

"As your brother, I feel it's my duty to warn you: you worry too much," he stated, stepping beside her and leaning against the pillar nearby. He knew there was nobody within hearing distance, but Cersei still kept her voice low. He ignored the waft of incense, lit to mask the fresh whiff of Jon Arryn's collapsed bowels. There were dozens of candles burning throughout the ornate room.

"And you never worry about anything," she replied, still staring at the corpse of the last Hand. "When we were seven you jumped off the cliffs of Casterly Rock. A hundred foot drop into the water – you were never afraid."

"There was nothing to _be_ afraid of, until you told father," he said with a carefree tone. "'Lannisters... Lannisters don't act like fools', he said. An almighty lecture, I'm sure." Jaime took pride in not having fear of things most ordinary men baulked at, including death. He was accomplished enough with the sword that most learned fighters didn't stand a chance against him, and his attitude to life was _rather_ laid-back.

"What if Jon Arryn told someone?" Cersei asked, worried.

"Who would he have told?" Jaime retorted, shrugging his shoulders.

"My husband."

"If he told the king both our heads would be skewered on the city gates," Jaime said. "Whatever Jon Arryn did or didn't know died with him, and the king is perfectly happy to choose a new hand and then spend his days out fucking boars and hunting whores. Or is it the other way about?"

Cersei did not let her amusement show, but it was a close thing. He took satisfaction in that. Being the only man who could reassure his beloved sister was a point of pride for the Kingslayer, a title he utterly despised. Even in times of strife he was comforted by her presence, so to return the favour was only just.

"You should be Hand of the King," she said.

Jaime scoffed. "That's an honour I can do without; their days are too long and their lives are too short. And I'd prefer to live long and happily, and kill any man who thinks otherwise."

"He won't choose Stannis," Cersei said, and he raised an eyebrow at her bitterness. "He has no love for either of his brothers, you know that."

"What are you thinking? Stark?" he asked incredulously, at the look on her face.

"Is there another choice?"

"His cock," Jaime said. "I imagine it'd be fitting for Robert's cock to rule the Seven Kingdoms. All he wants to do is fuck everybody over as it is."

"I'm sure Varys would be jealous."

Jaime grinned. The Spider was well known to be a eunuch, but his information web and spying prowess was invaluable. Not that Jaime trusted him, or Baelish. Or Pycelle. Or the king, for that matter. There were very few people Jaime trusted, which led to his next point.

"If the king chooses Stark it means we ride north to Winterfell. All of us," he added at her nod, ensuring she got the message.

Cersei's lip curled. "I shouldn't care if the dwarf joins us. Maybe he'll have a little accident on the road."

"You won't touch him," Jaime said firmly. "I know you have no love for the little man, but taking out that displeasure in front of Stark's brood isn't a good idea. We lead by example, remember?"

"Example," Cersei scoffed. "Our example would have most parents murdering children in their sleep and throwing their offspring into the bay."

"And yet you've never cared before, so why start now?"

Further talk was cut off as the lumbering fat man waddled through the doors. He nodded at the pair after paying his respects to his Hand's body and Jaime joined him on instinct. Ser Barristan the Bold was with him, with Ser Boros Blount – a fat craven if ever there was one – and Ser Meryn Trant – a bastard with a stick up his ass if ever there was one – guarding either side of the doors.

The men and women of The Faith departed on order from the king.

"Kingslayer," he greeted. "Where the hell have you been, then?"

"Standing vigil with my sister, Your Grace. Someone needed to make sure Lord Arryn's spirit was well-watched." _In case it tried to escape the stench of its own bowels._

The king waved his hand dismissively. "Whatever the case, I want both of you in the Small Council's chambers at dusk. There's an important matter to discuss with those slippery shits."

Jaime nodded. "Might I enquire-"

"In time, Kingslayer. Now leave me alone for a while; I wish to pay my respects."

Jaime bowed, trying not to look mocking, and left with Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He knew Selmy had never approved of his staying in the Kingsguard after he killed the Mad King, but that was to be expected – Selmy had as much honour as the Dragonknight and Ser Arthur Dayne themselves. And he was revered in the same vein as both men, respected by Jaime more so than any other knight in the Seven Kingdoms.

They spoke of the king's choices for Hand for a time, but when it became painfully clear Selmy did not much care for his company, Jaime left to dine on honeyed chicken and spiced wine. He often wished Tyrion were here, since that would give him someone interesting to speak to, but Cersei would not hear of it. And so, the younger, shorter brother of his fair sister was resigned to charging drains at Casterly Rock, under the watchful eyes of their illustrious father. But he would be coming north with them, Jaime knew. Tywin Lannister would not show weakness by preventing one of his children from travelling with the king for the sake of the peasantry having clean privies to shit into.

So he had that to look forward to, but for now, life was rather dull. He could spar with the other Kingsguard, but none could give him a workout except for Selmy, who would refuse the challenge. He knew because the man had done so before. Exploring the city alone was not wise, not when many still hated him and whispered 'Kingslayer' behind his back, but mostly not while he was garbed in such a fine outfit and liable to attract muggers.

Instead, he walked in the gardens awhile, stopping to peer out over the bay and wonder what surprises life held. There was no chance of repairing his damaged reputation, not so long as the world was festered with lickspittles and sycophants like half the knights in the kingdom and Stark, respectively. All he could do was make the most of the time he had left, but there was no rush. Death wasn't something Jaime feared, not when it came for all men at the end of their time. Maybe it would bring a welcome relief from being surrounded by the gaping geese of the capital.

Bored, all he could do was wait for dusk, at which time Jaime made his way to the chambers of the Small Council. It was unusual for the council to hold a meeting at such a late hour, but the king hardly cared for their protestations. The Kingsguard was present, as were the king himself and Cersei. Of the council sat Varys, Littlefinger, Stannis and Renly, the last two being the king's younger brothers. Stannis was a thinner, more serious version of Robert, while Renly was a mirror opposite of the both. At one and twenty, he was somewhat charismatic and relatively handsome, though Jaime would be wary to tell him that naked in a dark alley.

"Kingslayer!" Robert boomed. "About time! Sit your arse down."

Jaime did so, ignoring the nod Varys gave him. He instead looked at the king, waiting for him to speak. When he did, it was with none of his usual fervour.

"A man I loved like a father has died," he said. "But I have no interest in speaking of emotional rot with the likes of you people. Instead, we have business to discuss. We need a new Hand and I intend for it to be Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. Let it be noted."

Baelish did so.

Robert nodded. "And I believe our business is concluded. All of you can piss off to wherever you where before. Kingslayer, wait a moment."

Jaime tried not to grin at the look on Stannis's face. The man was typically gnashing his teeth, about ready to lash out like a poisonous snake. To the king's anger, he also stayed as the room emptied. Maybe he wasn't expecting Robert to be so discourteous; few were, judging by the looks on their faces. Jaime did not understand why. Robert loathed politics and had attended maybe a half dozen Small Council meetings in his tenure as king. But perhaps this was a record; thirty seconds for a Small Council meeting deserved a spot in the history books.

"I didn't ask for you to remain," Robert said with a tone of frost.

"I have been here, serving as your 'master of ships' for over a decade. I served you faithfully on Dragonstone and I crippled the Greyjoy fleet during their uprising. What have you given me in return for this service, but a bastard in my wedding bed and now a snubbing for Hand of the King?" Stannis asked, glaring at his elder brother.

"Your service be damned!" Robert roared, jumping to his feet. "I named you my heir before my children were born, and in return you let those white-haired shits escape across the sea! Be grateful you have this much!"

Stannis's eyes hardened, though Jaime had not thought such a thing possible. When he spoke, he may as well have spat acid. "I will not be privy to the wenching of an incompetent king or the insults he bestows upon me. I shall return to Dragonstone."

"Then go," Robert said, as Stannis stormed away, "before I have your head!"

The door slammed.

Jaime raised an eyebrow. _What a joyous expression of sibling love. Maybe I should be grateful Cersei is a woman, or else she and Tyrion would have duelled long ago. And with his stature and her limitations, that may have been interesting. _

"What am I supposed to do?" Robert growled, pouring an _unhealthy_ measure of wine into a glass. The king had never known his own limits. "My own brother mocks me by turning tail and I have lost a second father. You've dealt with ill feeling, Kingslayer. How did you cope?"

Jaime frowned. "If you're asking me for advice on mourning-"

"Oh, piss on that," Robert said loudly. "I'm asking how you didn't wish to kill every man, son and wench that insulted you behind your back."

With a humourless smile, Jaime said: "that's the great thing about my back, Your Grace; I don't actually see them mock me. They wouldn't dream accost me to my front. It seems most people who bandy words to my face lose a hand for their trouble. Or a head."

"I've lost my own Hand," Robert snorted, "and it seems one of my advisors dislikes his replacement."

_Not just one. _"Before he's even accepted the position, Your Grace? Lord Stark could always... refuse."

"It's the damned principle of the thing! But I care not; I didn't win my throne to barter it with mine own younger blood. Send a raven to Casterly Rock and inform your lord father of my choice. I understand he was asking about the vacancy, and don't want another slight on my hands."

Jaime nodded. "Of course. Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"

Robert waved him off. But before he could leave, Robert uttered an expletive. "Seven Hells, I forgot. Come back here."

_Not such a surprise,_ Jaime mused with ill humour. "Your Grace?"

"I have lost more than a Hand of the King," Robert muttered. "Jon Arryn was Warden of the East, if you remember."

"Shall I inform my father you will appoint Robert Arryn in his stead?"

Here, the king hesitated. That was interesting, to say the least. Robert was never a one for flinching from a task he enjoyed, nor for showing weakness in front of _underlings_. He seemed to deliberate for a second, taking a few sips of wine and his face growing slightly redder each passing second.

"No," Robert said at last. "I need someone of power, Kingslayer. Someone who can quell any potential uprising and rule from a position of strength. Jon's boy is a child, a sickly one at that. He cannot inherit the position. I would name you my Warden of the East in his stead."

Now that _was_ surprising. Jaime felt his eyebrows move upwards of their own accord, but quickly assumed an impassive mantra. Robert knew he would inherit Tywin's position as Warden of the West when he died, despite his oaths, yet here he offered an equally as lucrative position, one which would see half the armies of the realm fall to Lannister control. Was he really so naive, or was this move one of desperation? Either way, Jaime would not refuse.

"You honour me, Your Grace."

"Yes, yes, go and sally your honour elsewhere," Robert said, finally dismissing him.

Jaime did not visit with Cersei that night. He knew the king was unpredictable when drunk, and if he were to pass out, she would come to him. Instead, he happened upon his eldest son in the throne room, who saw him as but an uncle. Prince Joffrey was in the presence of Sandor Clegane, as he oft was. Having never been a father to him and never caring for him, Jaime couldn't stand the little shit or his mannerisms. Joffrey was nothing to him but the unpleasant result of a good fuck.

"Nephew... and pup," he greeted cheerfully.

Clegane glowered at him, but Joff returned the greeting with boredom and disdain. "Uncle. Why are you out so late at night?"

"Your father called a Small Council meeting," Jaime said. "Seems he's chosen his new Hand of the King already."

"A pathetic role," Joffrey scoffed. "No true king needs any advisors, let alone a lackey to rule in his stead. When I am king there'll be some changes."

_Oh, I cannot wait. _"Nonetheless, His Royalness has made his decision, nephew. We ride north, presumably once Tyrion arrives."

"Why is the dwarf coming with us?" Joffrey sneered. "And north, no less? The northerners are nothing but savages, no better than the Wildlings themselves."

"He _is_ a member of the royal family," Jaime pointed out, "and as such, is expected to dine with us when we reach Winterfell."

"Winterfell? You mean father has chosen a _Stark_ as his Hand? This entire city will rot when he spreads his savage ways over the people," Joffrey laughed.

Jaime was growing bored of this. Not only was Joffrey as thick as porridge, but he had all the social pleasantries of a particularly gruesome shit. Even the Hound knew to hold his tongue on occasion, though the burned man wasn't one to speak much, anyhow.

"The king leads, and I follow," Jaime shrugged.

Joffrey eyed him maliciously. "Yes, uncle, that is true. You _are_ a born follower, aren't you? And just remember who'll be king after my father dies. I don't want any slow, fat knights on my Kingsguard... or any who might stab me in the back."

Jaime did not rise to the bait. He had heard worse many a time before, from more intimidating people than the likes of Joffrey _Baratheon._ "I wouldn't mind some fat opponents, _Your Grace_. Much more of a target to strike for, and not enough puff in their lungs."

Joffrey sneered. "Come, dog."

The two left, leaving Jaime alone in the throne room. He stared at the same spot for several minutes – that damned chair. He had sat upon it once, but never again. It was quite uncomfortable, and the price of that brief sit was a life of mockery and insult. He would sooner melt the thing down and have it forged into a thousand new swords. As the new Warden of the East, he had to keep his military thoughts forthright.

_That role won't be kept for very long_, he thought. _The people do not love me enough to let me rule, and too many highborn lords fear me. We'll see what we see. _

True to Jaime's prediction, Tyrion arrived at the capital with a line of Lannister guards only several days after Jaime had sent his raven. His brother explained their father had sent him ahead of time, to pay his respects to Lord Arryn.

"It seems our dear father is too busy to come himself," Tyrion said, as he ate a leg of mutton. "He sent me in his place."

"That was kind of him," Jaime quipped.

"Of course," Tyrion said dryly. "Father always has been a kind man. Why, he may even let me out of the sewers if I remain on my best behaviour up north."

"Would that I could help," Jaime said, taking a sip of wine. "You know how difficult it is to reason with him, particularly when he gets his ire up. And, unfortunately..."

"His ire is always up where I am concerned," Tyrion nodded, waving his short legs beneath the chair he sat on. "Think nothing of it. I try not to. But tell me, Jaime, where _is_ my beautiful sister? I'm hurt she decided not to greet me at the gates. Is she with the king, or readying the children for our long trek, perhaps?"

Jaime almost winced. Almost.

"Surely you haven't missed her that much, brother."

Tyrion snorted, grinning mischievously. "She's far too easy to annoy. I'm afraid I'll have no fun with her."

"Just remember why we're travelling," Jaime said. "Or rather, _where_ we're travelling."

"Oh?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

From that expression, Jaime knew that he must have looked like having swallowed a sour grape. "I'm telling you now, so I don't have to when we reach Winterfell: don't leave me alone with those people. I implore you."

"I'll do my best, of course," Tyrion said. "Does mean Lord Stark frighten you, brother? Are you afraid he'll bury you in a mound of summer snow?"

Jaime grinned. He knew Tyrion spoke in jest; he was the only man Jaime would ever let get away with such an idle tongue. It was the norm for his misshapen brother. "'_Why, Lannister, the stick in my ass still hasn't been removed, I'll have you know.'"_

Tyrion laughed gently and finished his glass of wine. "I'm sure he isn't _that_ uppity. I wouldn't know. I've never had the pleasure."

"Gods willing, you never again have to," Jaime muttered.

Over the following few days, preparations were made for the royal family's departure. Save for Barristan Selmy, who would remain as a member of the Small Council, the entire Kingsguard would be riding north. Cersei commissioned a chariot for herself and her children, but Joffrey protested hotly, preferring to ride with the men. She relented when Robert told her his eldest son would not present himself as a soft lady with cushions for his arse and perfume on his neck.

Jaime was partial to travelling, despite their final destination. It was with some mixed feeling that he finally left the city on their departure, riding ahead of the king and his sister. They would take several weeks to reach Winterfell at this pace; no doubt that would irritate the king in the extreme. He would have to ensure the blasted fool did not risk his neck by riding alone, away from the convoy. In any case, it would be cold up north.

To say nothing of the weather.

* * *

**:Author's Notes:**

In A Game of Thrones, Stannis flees to Dragonstone after Robert leaves for Winterfell. For the purposes of this story, this event happens slightly sooner - no chapter I publish will be filler. They all serve a purpose.

_\- __"I dont know if that is a spoiler, but will Harry meet Melisandre? It would be intersting to see which magic is stronger."_

You'll have to forgive me for being such a vague writer, but what happens will happen. If I give away too much it might alert the more prominent ASOIF readers to the big changes I have planned this early, which I don't want to happen. But I agree, it would be interesting and it might just happen at some point.

\- _"__On one hand i like the story, very well written, good pacing. On another i really tired of Voldemort in stories, one of the reasons i have a preference for reading crossovers these days. But we will see how it goes."_

I really don't know what to say in reply to that, except that I've never read a Harry Potter crossover story that includes Voldemort. In any case, the Voldemort I have planned for this story has never been seen in FanFiction. Sure, he's still a sociopath who wants to become immortal and murder any would-be opponents, but this is the world of Ice and Fire. Trust me when I say that's enough of a precedent for him to be a unique character, even to the standards of FanFiction.

A big 'thank you' to everybody.


	4. Robb, I

**Robb, I**

* * *

Robb Stark, eldest child of Eddard and Catelyn, knew that many people still saw him as half a boy. Lords and ladies throughout the land, many vassals of his father and some underlings; it made no difference. When one was bestowed with a look of youth, they were granted demeaning titles like 'boy' and 'child'.

That was why Robb found it queer Harry didn't see him in that light. The man, a wizard, seemed to both trust and respect him almost in the same vein he did his father. And so Robb did not protest when Harry half-dragged him from the meeting father had called to the godswood, at which point he let go and started to pace, arms crossed anxiously.

"Harry? What's bothering you?" Robb asked with a frown.

Harry stopped and shot him a cursory glance. "The royal entourage is arriving at this castle within the month. Before they cross the portcullis, I need to know everything there is to know about the noble families of this land, as well as the geography of Westeros itself."

"Didn't you say Luwin was teaching you?" Robb asked. Harry had, after some protestation, brought the aged Maester and mother into the fold. Both knew who he really was. Harry had been apprehensive about Luwin, but everybody knew the man was loyal to a point and assured him there would be no secrets spilled.

"He is, but I'm talking personalities, not words and sigils," Harry frowned, more to himself than Robb. "Your father will be much too busy to devote the time I need to this task. Can you help me?"

Robb started. "Me? What do I know that could help you? I'm a... I'm barely a man, and I've never met the likes of King Robert or the royal family."

"Your father has surely told you stories," Harry shook his head. "Any little you can give me will be useful, I'm sure. Anything at all."

Robb crossed his arms and looked to the ground, adopting a more 'mature' guise. He did know quite a bit from the war stories father, Ser Rodrik and Jory had told the elder boys.

"A place for a third, mayhaps?" came Jon's voice, as he stepped into the clearing.

Harry looked to him and nodded slowly, to Robb's delight. Jon was his best friend and he would be grateful for the help in this matter. Both boys knew equal amounts regarding the visitors that would be received a month from then. Snow might be a bastard's name, but Jon was no bastard in Robb's heart. He was more a brother than the likes of Greyjoy could ever hope to be, and as much so as Bran and Rickon.

"I feel I should warn you," Jon told Harry, "that father despises the Lannisters. Lord Tywin had the children of Rhaegar Targaryen butchered, one a girl near Rickon's age and the other a baby boy, still at his mother's breast. It's said that Gregor Clegane, The Mountain That Rides, raped their mother with the babe's blood still on his hands. The whole of Westeros knows the story, but few know how much animosity there is between the great houses as a result."

Harry looked disgusted for a minute, but then he gave a hollow smile. "That's fucking sickening. But it's precisely the type of thing I need to hear to get a grip on this situation."

Robb grinned at his choice of oath. He also found it an appalling tale, and he knew Jon did as well. The boys had discussed it on more than one occasion; that is, the hatred between some of the houses, the war and the effects it had upon the combatants. Who was he kidding? Robb would be able to tell Harry a great deal, especially with Jon's help. And yet...

"We will do our part, my lord, but I still feel you should talk to father."

"I will," Harry promised. Then grimaced. "But stop with the 'lord' nonsense, could you? You both know the truth about me."

"It's a matter of principle," Jon grinned, and Robb joined in the jesting. "Father has made you lord of Sea Dragon Point, and it would be best if we stuck to that story, to get into character for the king's arrival."

"Yes, about that," Harry said, fixing them with a stern look. Robb was so reminded of father that he almost shirked a little at that moment. "I understand b-men of your age are allowed to drink wine. _Don't_ let your tongue slip."

"We shan't," Robb promised, ignoring the near slip-up.

"Good," Harry nodded, looking relieved. "Now, what else can you tell me?"

"If we're going by hatred first, it'd be best to speak of the Kingslayer," Robb said. "Jaime Lannister and father have known one another for many years and..."

For the next few weeks, the oldest Stark child and Snow continued to teach Harry as much as they could, often turning to Luwin for technical information and to father for personal feeling whenever necessary. The latter wasn't altogether pleased that they were speaking of _hatred_ between Stark and Lannister, but after Harry had a quiet word with him one evening he took both boys aside and bid them tell Harry all that would help him, whether it made them uncomfortable or no. He did much himself, provided he wasn't busy with the running of Winterfell and preparations for the king's arrival.

Robb sat there one afternoon, watching Micah wield hammer and tongs emphatically as he scratched Grey Wind behind the ears, pondering the mysterious man in black, as he had come to be known around Winterfell. A man in black who did not belong to the Night's Watch was an oddity, and there were many who mistook him for one of the ancient brothers. Arya was insatiable in her thirst for stories, which Robb helped the man to rehearse. He knew Harry felt guilty about lying to the girl, more so than any other member of the castle who didn't know of his true background, but it was a necessary set of lies to preserve an even stranger truth.

From what Harry had told them, the truth was too dangerous to be made public. There were those who would call him mad and those who might take violent action for the sake of normality. Harry once remarked that "the men of Westeros are as like to fuck your daughter as to skewer you", which he called a "double whammy" of insults. Robb didn't understand it entirely, but he got the gist and wasn't altogether happy that Harry tarred them all with the same brush.

"I'm not," Harry had said. "I'm joking. You need to understand that in humour, there is always someone insulted by the joke."

His musings on those words were interrupted by the arrival of his half-brother. Jon could have been older or younger than he was; nobody seemed to know for sure. He had more of a Stark look about him than Robb did, who was closer to looking a Tully with his auburn hair. Something about Jon made him think of the North and the cold of winter, though Jon's demeanour was only frosty when being set upon by either Greyjoy or Robb's mother.

"What do you make of his tale, Stark?" Jon asked, as they walked with low voices. Arya and Bran circled a few times, before Robb shooed them away.

"I don't know, Snow," Robb said, thinking hard. "I believe him, if that's what you're asking. We all saw what he's capable of."

"We did," Jon agreed. "And father trusts him too. I fancy your mother is rather fond of him too, or at least how close he is to the children."

"Rickon hangs off of him like a third arm," Robb grinned. "And Arya won't shut up about whatever stories he's filling her head with."

"Maybe she's enamoured," Jon laughed.

"I don't know about that," Robb said, trying and failing not to laugh. The idea of Arya having a crush was certainly amusing, especially when she seemed more rebellious than either of the boys were at her age. "She's still young, too young to have any clue."

"Long may it stay that way," Jon muttered. "Gods help that one if she comes after him."

Dinner was a pleasant affair, as it oft was. True to his mannerisms, father chose another member of Winterfell to sup with them that evening. This time it was Jory Cassel, and he had the younger children in fits of laughter with his tales of the Winterfell guard. His party piece, a drunken impersonation of Hodor, was interrupted by a knocking on the door.

Father frowned as Maester Luwin entered and whispered a word in his ear. He rose and motioned to Robb and Jon to follow him. The four set out for the godswood, leaving Catelyn with a worried look and Jory to distract the youngsters.

"What's happening?" Robb asked, as they walked in quiet darkness.

"Best you wait and hear it for yourself," Luwin said.

The group found Harry with his wand drawn, muttering choice words over the trunk of the weirwood heart tree as he ran his spare hand along the smoothened surface.

"What's the meaning of this?" father asked, in a patient but firm tone.

"Ah, Lord Stark! Do you remember how I told you that I came here through a magical device we call 'the portal'?" Harry's voice was on-edge, but in a surprisingly dapper way. Father blinked in surprise, both at the tone and the abrupt question.

"Yes, what of it?"

"I think I've found it."

His father frowned, but Robb cottoned on quickly. "You mean the _tree_?"

"I mean _inside_ the tree," Harry explained, glancing at them momentarily. "It seems to be housing something of magical temperament, which gives it unique interdimensional qualities that can cause temporal displacement and-"

Harry took one look at the black faces he was receiving and rolled his eyes. Robb had understood maybe half of that cut-out sentence, to his smugness.

"The tree," Harry said, "is a protective case for something powerful on the inside. Something which allows people to be in two places at once."

"How is that possible?" father asked, practically in shock.

"Don't worry about that," Harry said, shaking his head impatiently. "The why and how of this matter is too complicated to explain. Just know that I think this is the case in question because we've seen such objects before. Of course, I don't _literally_ mean two places at once. I mean the speed of embarkation is so quick it gives that impression."

"Slow down," his father said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

"Eh... if you step in at one end, you appear at the other so quickly it seems like you're in two places at once. For a nanosecond. We call it 'teleporting'."

With a _crack_, Harry disappeared! Robb jumped out of his skin when the man appeared a foot to his right, and the other three were no less shocked.

"Apparition, as you've just seen, is one variation of this ability. But it's a difficult skill to master and it isn't taught to children because of the dangers involved, so we use other methods as well. Vanishing cabinets and portkeys are the two most common means outside of apparition, with the portal being a new device that works in a similar manner."

"And you think this... _portal_ is inside the tree?" Ned asked, perplexed. "How is it convenient if someone on the... other side... is trapped like that?"

"The device can't be used inside the tree," Harry said calmly, enunciating carefully. He looked Ned Stark dead in the eye. "My lord, I need to-"

"No!" father exclaimed, his voice filled with venom. Harry recoiled. "I won't have you defile the sacred place of worship that we pray to. It's unthinkable, besmirching the old gods in such a manner."

Harry grimaced. Robb didn't understand everything that was happening here, and nor apparently did Jon. The both of them watched with both fear and awe, the former at Harry's abilities and the latter the same. Luwin watched with his typically becalmed aura, absorbing the scene with hands folded inside his robes. Robb didn't agree with the idea of destroying the heart tree, but Harry was doing his best to make a convincing argument.

"My lord, you have to trust me. If Voldemort gets ahold of enough servants in this land, it won't just be your godswood that he burns. It'll be your farms, your homes and your people. When the last ember is scattered across the battleground of ash he leaves behind, the gods may be wishing you had let me destroy this tree. Besides... _destroy_ is a strong word. My friend Hermione excels at medical care and my friend Ron at ward work; either might be able to help."

Father shut his eyes, head bowed to the ground. Robb had to wonder whether his honorific principles would win over his desire for justice, given that both were the most important things in the world to Ned Stark after his family. Harry did not say a word and the silence stretched for several seconds. Finally, the older man sighed and looked at him.

"We can speak of this later. We certainly can't cater for your friends when the king is arriving. You'll be suspicious enough on your own."

"They can hide," Harry protested. "Or we can link up the portal and let them go home in the meantime when push comes to shove."

"This is a castle, but it _will_ be filled to bursting," Ned retorted. "There will _be_ no place to hide. And we can't have you using that ability in plain sight."

"You're wrong on both counts, my lord," Harry muttered, "because you underestimate magic. But I do appreciate and respect your concerns. I must insist we talk about this on the morrow, however."

"That would be fine," father nodded.

Robb found it incredible that these men saw one another as equals. All his life he knew that father was one of the five most powerful men in the kingdoms, but this Harry Potter spoke from great strength in his own right. When that was coupled with his ability to wield a sword, one could see how advantageous it was to have an ally like him if war ever came to pass. Which he hoped it wouldn't. Peace was good, and winter was coming.

He wasn't sure what exactly they had talked about the next day, but Harry spent a great deal of time in the godswood from then on, attempting to use his magic to 'uncover the portal', as he put it. Lord Stark insisted that the boys keep him company, in order to act as a lookout and to make sure he didn't try anything dangerous. Robb knew he was wary of leaving his sons in the presence of _anything_ that might cause harm, but at the same time he trusted Harry to not do that.

"Okay, to hell with this," Harry snapped suddenly, pulling Robb from that reverie. He aimed his wand directly at the trunk and sliced it like a sword. "_Diffindo!"_

With a loud _snap_, the bark split in two. Robb's throat seemed to constrict as half of the trunk fell away from the centre. He had cut it vertically, leaving enough support for the upper section that the tree itself would not topple. It was as though Harry had carved away a large piece of the middle, exposing the centre of the trunk.

"What are you doing?" Jon exclaimed, wide-eyed.

Harry ignored him and laughed loudly, almost giddily. He reached his hand inside the trunk and pulled something out. Robb saw that it was a smooth stone, indigo in colour. But he didn't care – he was incensed.

"Harry! You heard what father said!" Robb said with anger.

"Relax!" Harry smiled. He bid them come closer, which they did with no small amount of trepidation. Robb watched with raised eyebrows as the man waved his wand and the broken piece of trunk seemed to reattach itself. Harry muttered a few foreign words beneath his breath, and it seemed to create a seal around the area he had carved away. It wasn't smooth or flawless, but from a distance no one would be able to tell the difference.

"Just like new," Harry said, nodding with pride. "Ron could do a better job – wards and repair are his forte – but I think it'll do."

"Does that mean you can summon your friends now?" Robb asked, after his shock had subsided.

"No," Harry said, suddenly looking weary. "The truth is, I've spent a few weeks studying this device now. The tree _is_ the portal, but it's incomplete."

"How so?"

Harry took a deep breath, and Robb had a horrible thought this explanation was going to be painful to follow. "Let me make it easy to understand. There are seven worlds, with a corresponding stone for each. These worlds are marked by a particular colour. Violet is for this one, and red for mine. Once the device is aligned, the stones can be used to access those worlds by using a certain technique.

"But, for whatever reason, the portal still functions if one or more of the stones are taken away. Originally we had no violet-"

"This is all well and confusing," Jon interrupted. "How does it affect us, exactly?"

"I was getting to that," Harry frowned. "Obviously you can't access the world you're in with the portal, so a violet stone wouldn't cause any effect in this world. The portal would just remain inactive. Only the other six will work."

"But if the portal isn't... _aligned,_ how did you get here?" Rob asked, trying to keep up.

"It can receive travellers, but they can't go the opposite way," Harry explained. "Basically, I got here, but until it's aligned in this world, I can't go back."

"Someone must have aligned it originally," Jon pointed out. "And surely, if the portal still works without all the stones present, it should be functioning properly here?"

"Two good points," Harry nodded, "but both wrong. We don't know where it originally came from, so I won't even try to guess at that. And as for the second point... all we have is a theory. Hermione tried to explain to me multiverse theory once-"

"What?" the young men blurted out together.

"Oh, bollocks," Harry muttered, scratching his head wistfully. "Basically, her theory is that the portal was created in _our_ world and has never been accessed in this one, which is why I have to align it. Don't ask me where the stones are, because I don't know. Come to think of it, that links with both your questions, Jon. If it was created in our world, the only people to ever use it are my group and Voldemort. Unless someone accessed it secretly long, long ago..."

"If Voldemort is here, could he have stolen the stones?"

"No. At least, not this one," Harry said, holding up the smooth indigo rock.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because it would have been much better hidden than inside a fucking tree, that's why."

"Wait," Robb said, after thinking a moment. "Unless I'm mistaken – which is probably true – you just said the stones aren't all in the one place-"

"I only have this one and the red one I took with me as an emergency escape. Once we use a stone for the portal in another world, we can't reuse it somewhere else. The red stone I have, let's just call it the Earth Stone, has never been used before."

"-right. So what now?"

Jon looked from his brother to Harry, both of them clearly expecting an answer. Robb had a good idea of what this meant, but he wanted to confirm it with the only man who could actually tell him the truth. He was utterly lost with most of what Harry was saying, but he understood this much, at least. And as it turned out, Harry would confirm his guess.

"I have to keep looking. Like I said, I've been studying this tree for a while now. If I'm right, the stones are placed... right... here," he said, tongue between his teeth, as he slotted one into each eye socket of the heart tree. They seemed to flash for a heartbeat. "Bingo. There are no other places to put the others, so I can only assume the 'portal' in this world consists of more than one device. Can either of you tell me where there are other godswoods?"

Robb stammered, but Harry watched him with expectation. "Father didn't tell you? There are dozens across Westeros."

Harry's eyes widened. "What?"

"Yes, many of the northern households keep the old gods," Jon said. "I thought he mentioned that?"

"He did, but I assumed a godswood was a special place for higher-born lords and ladies. Damn it. That means I'm going to have to search. This task has just become laughingly difficult, going by how large the North is. What about the South?"

"Some keep the old gods in the Riverlands, but not many," Robb said.

"That's still something to note," Harry muttered. "Are there any particular places of great importance where there might be a godswood? Hell, I don't even know for sure the other piece of the portal is inside a heart tree, but it's my best guess by this point."

Robb and Jon shared a look of shock.

"What is it?" Harry asked, looking at them curiously.

"There _is_ a godswood like that in the South," Robb said. "One that's in an area of great importance, even if it isn't used. But I don't think it has a heart tree anymore."

"That sounds suspiciously Voldemort-convenient," Harry said dryly. "Where?"

Robb swallowed. "In King's Landing."

* * *

**:Author's Notes:**

_\- "Pretty sure Robert (or any King) doesn't have the power to choose a Lord Paramount. Least of all Replace one."_

Actually, that happens in the books, but Tywin later gives back the position to Robert Arryn after he assumes the role of Hand. In this world, the king does as he pleases.

\- _"__To the Warden titel, I thought it would mean the warden gets the command only in the case of a foreign invasion? So at the moment the position is absolutly useless, especially since no Lord of the Eryie will follow the Kingsslayer. So I dont really understand Roberts plan, but I guess he doesnt know it himself."_

In the books, Robert tells Ned that Jaime is being given the position because Robert Arryn is a sickly boy who can't rule from a position of strength. The first indication we get that this is happening is on the Kingsroad, after Robert finds out Dany has wed Khal Drogo. In his words, he wants to repel any potential Dothraki invasion. For the sake of this story, that event was moved up, as an effect of his argument with Stannis also being moved up in Jaime's first POV. The reason he hesitates, which Jaime notes as odd, is that he doesn't yet know of Dany's marriage, hasn't got his ire up as a result and is slightly self-doubting the decision.

\- _"__Wow... For a reality travelling warrior this Harry seems unbelievably incompetent. He trains in martial arts that take years to be competent in but he doesn't know any mind magic or how to cast a few healing spells? I stopped reading because willful ignorance and stupidity is not becoming of a main character especially when his current skill set is not what would be expected of a person who has seen many friends and loved ones die."_

Ehm, no. Harry isn't academically brilliant enough to learn Healing on his own and can't take an apprenticeship because, 1) the war is ongoing and 2) it's what we collectively call "a division of labour in warfare". You should look that meaning up. Harry chooses to focus on battlefield strategy, Hermione focuses on Healing and Ron on other things I haven't yet discussed in the story (warding is one example), while all three have a smattering of cross-role training. He knows basic first aid, as is said, but he isn't a genius and was so preoccupied with fighting for survival he couldn't get down the more advanced charms. As for mind magic: Harry was utterly incompetent with regards to Occlumency in the series and we have to assume Legilimency is just as difficult to learn, if not more so. And even if he wasn't, yet again, where is the master for him to learn from? Read between the lines and assume Voldemort is taking out everybody who can harm him, which is what happened before he fled.

On a side note to everybody, I wouldn't have given Harry Legilimency even if he was capable of learning it. The reason? It's a deus ex machina that I have no desire to employ in this story. Any _Double Jeopardy _readers know it can be balanced with mental defences, but those don't exist in ASOIF, so it would just be a boring, all-powerful addition to the story for the protagonist.

_\- "Short Chapter, even it it seems as a filler chapter."_

Every POV character will have less than 5000 words per chapter, bar Harry, who has 8000-10,000. This keeps the pace balanced and allows him to maintain the brunt of the story.

Thank you to everyone for following/favouriting/reviewing.


	5. Tyrion, I

**Tyrion, I**

The home of the Starks was every bit as cold as it was hard; thick stones maintained an impassive curtain wall surrounding Winterfell, and the portcullis was wide and heavy. There were no summer snows here just yet, but a thin layer of frost covered the surrounding countryside, and the sun was unable to penetrate a rather bleak mattress of cloud above. Despite that, there was no wind on the morn, so the temperature was surprisingly pleasant for so far north on such a bleak day.

Tyrion stepped down from the royal carriage, drawing, as he often did, inquisitive glances from the commoners lining the courtyard and polite bows from the Starks themselves. His eyes were drawn to the one who could only have been Lord Eddard Stark; the man was of a frightening disposition. He was tall and burly, with a thick beard and dark hair to match. Tyrion could not see his eyes clearly, but they were sharp and spoke of intelligence in their own right.

Beside him were his wife Catelyn and their children, whom it appeared had been the results of a toss-up in whether they would receive Stark or Tully features. Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon... they were lined beside their parents. Behind this group was Ser Rodrik Cassel, famed for his snow-white whiskers, his nephew Jory, a young man that, by age and face, must have been Lord Stark's hostage Theon Greyjoy, and a boy around Robb's age with features so Stark Tyrion instantly knew he was Jon Snow, the proud Lord's bastard son.

Tyrion frowned as his eyes found another man beside Jon Snow, one he couldn't place. He was good with faces and knew his noble Lords and Ladies, but this one was a mystery. He must have been someone of some stature to be stood just behind Lord Stark – a young knight, anointed by Stark in his position as Warden of the North, perhaps? He was shorter than Ser Rodrik and Jory, with a thick crop of unruly dark hair that almost gave him a look of the Starks to boot. But that couldn't be the case – the only other could be Eddard's brother Benjen, and he would be dressed all in black. Could he be a Karstark emissary?

Tyrion shifted his eyes and performed the niceties as the king approached, along with each person in the courtyard. The Starks certainly had their manners intact, though Tyrion knew even a devious snake in men's clothing would have the most polished of manners outright.

After some words he mainly ignored, choosing instead to scan the crowd and the walls around, the king left for the crypts with Lord Stark to pay his respect. Tyrion would have smirked at his dear sister if he weren't a little wary of being poisoned in his sleep that night. He knew full well the subject of Robert's 'respects'. When the two departed, the crowd began to disperse at Lady Catelyn's bequest. Jaime turned to him.

"Remember, little brother... don't leave me alone with these people."

"My dear brother, I will do my best, but when there is no food to be had, a man must satisfy other needs. I am in desperate need of a bath, a shave and a good wenching. Travelling for a month can be painful." As Tyrion said all this, his eyes never left the group of Starks. He noted with revulsion the older girl, Sansa, shooting Joffrey some bashful looks, and pitied the poor child for her dreadful taste. The younger girl was surprisingly taken with _him_, although Tyrion knew a glance at a dwarf for merely being a dwarf off the top of his head and grumbled in discomfort. He turned back to Jaime, who was speaking.

"Can you even _give_ a good wenching?" he asked.

Tyrion grinned. "My cock is not so small as when we were six, I'll have you know. Was that when you saw it last?"

"Ah, yes, you always did love to piss in public as a child," Jaime said. "And now you shit instead, over the heads of everybody. It's quite ironic, since-"

"-I'm a dwarf," Tyrion finished for him, deadpan. "How perfectly droll."

Jaime smirked and nodded to Cersei. "Sis doesn't seem taken with Lady Stark."

Tyrion followed his gaze and saw that his sister was frowning, presumably at having to dirty her eyes by glancing upon a woman whose arse the sun didn't shine out of. Catelyn appeared to be nobody's fool, however, and left after a short bow. She ushered her children indoors, but shot an uneasy glance at the stranger among their ranks. That was interesting. The man in question was approaching. _That _was even more interesting.

"My Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime," he said, with a quick bow. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Jaime nodded stiffly, but Tyrion was more courteous. "Charmed, Ser...?"

"Lord Potter," the man said, surprising Tyrion again. "Harry will suffice."

At close range, Tyrion could make out an array of distinguishing features that this man held in comparison to his Stark hosts. He was less stocky than one might expect of Eddard Stark's brood, had eyes the colour of emeralds and spoke with an accent unlike any he knew of. There was a thin scar upon his brow, in the shape of a bolt of lightning. He appeared to be below his thirtieth year, yet the light dusting of stubble and haunted look he bore betrayed him to an older age. He appeared more ragged than even Stark, in a roundabout manner.

And... a Lord?

"I must say I've never had the pleasure," Tyrion began knowingly.

"Nor would any outside of WInterfell," Harry said. "I hail from Sea Dragon Point, where my people were set upon by brigands. I sought Lord Stark's help and was made a Lord for the trouble."

"Ah, yes," Jaime smirked. "The honour of the Starks truly knows no bounds. And here I thought you may have owed your loyalty to the Greyjoys."

"I have no love for the kraken," Harry said, and Tyrion noticed a tightness around his eyes as he answered Jaime's barb. He was clearly not a fool and could pick up on underlying comments in a flash.

"But I wonder if _it_ has love for _you," _Jaime continued.

"Fuck it," Harry shrugged. "If it gets too close, I'll see if I can lop off a few limbs. By which I mean heads. By which I mean-"

"I get the idea," Jaime said, sounding bored. He spared a glance for the blade at Harry's hip, and his eyebrows rose in appreciation. "A fine weapon, that. Though I've always found that jewels make for clumsy blades, and those who use them oftentimes stumble in a fight."

"Cut off my right hand, tie the left behind my back and give me your brother's legs, and I would still use this 'clumsy blade' to send you weeping back to daddy Tywin," Harry said, smirking when Jaime's smile dropped.

Tyrion paused, and then laughed uproariously. He finished it with a mighty grin and scratched his own, lighter stubble. "I like this one, brother. He must know I despise comments about my stature, but anyone who can wipe that smirk off your face gets a second chance to make my good books."

Jaime seemed to not hear him. "You and I should settle this in the courtyard," he said in a low voice, eyes only for Harry.

"Surely that wouldn't befit a member of the Kingsguard: duelling a common Lord," he shrugged in reply, though his body language suggested to Tyrion that he was open to the idea. Something told him that this Lord Potter had come over here just to pick a fight, and he was playing the part masterfully.

"Now that's a queer phrase," Jaime said. "'Common Lord'. A little self-indicting, wouldn't you say?"

"Not at all," Harry said cheerfully. "I merely meant that Lords are a little down the pecking order, aren't they? Don't you usually settle for nothing less than kingship?"

And now Tyrion was ready to watch the proverbial shit get thrown out a proverbial window and hit said proverbial king square in the face.

"Are you questioning my honour or my dignity?" Jaime asked. "I would like to know before I kill you."

"Your dignity, since you have no honour," Harry immediately replied. "And I doubt your dignity equates to more than an eighty year old whore wearing a shit-stained bathrobe to cover her sagging tits, so even that is in question. What type of man would wait until the last moment to save the lives of an entire city, nay, an entire land? Sure, someone had to kill Aerys, but you didn't exactly jump at the first opportunity, did you? You might say your sworn oath prevented it, but if that were true you would _never _have killed him. The truth of the matter is much simpler – you waited until your dear father made a move just when he could accept credit for minimal exposure. And while he gallivanted around King's Landing, murdering and raping women and children, you stabbed the Mad King in the back. Do I care that you ended the war? Not a chance. King's Landing is the largest city in all of Westeros, and if you weren't so much of a godforsaken _craven_, it would never have been sacked. The blood of those people, of Elia Martell and her children among countless others, is as much on your hands as Lord Tywin's, Kingslayer. Now prove me wrong."

Tyrion couldn't believe what was happening. Something about this man was peculiar – meaning suicidal. No one had _ever_ spoken such harsh words to Jaime before, not even their father. Not Robert. Not even Eddard Stark. And it was much worse than the simple words – the way he strung them together, the manner in which he reached a logical conclusion, was mesmerising. Tyrion knew then and there that this man had orchestrated the conversation just to reach this pivotal moment, and that he was a master academic. He began to wonder _who_ he could possibly have learned from at such an isolated place as Sea Dragon Point.

Jaime, meanwhile, had not said a word the entire time, but his hand had tightened around the blade he had sheathed with each word Lord Potter spoke. When he was dared to make a move, he drew it, and Tyrion put a hand on his arm, around the elbow, but Jaime snapped it away.

"Stay back, Tyrion," he practically hissed, his face contorted into a mask of fury. "What do you know of _honour, _my _Lord?" _he spat, eyes bearing into Harry's with a wish to maim and kill. "Did you perchance fight in the war, or were you too busy at your mother's teat? I explain myself to no man, but given that I've never been told the _sacking_ was my doing, I'll make you the exception.

"Imagine living each day as though it might be your last. As though the king you _swore_ to serve and protect might snap at any moment, douse you with wildfire and laugh as you crumbled to ash. Imagine the fate he would have in store for your _family_ if you were to disobey him! Was I to threaten Lannister lives by turning against him before the best moment? _No._ A lion doesn't bow before stag, direwolf or _fish._ I don't care how many of them died, so long as I saved every Lannister possible. Not that I particularly like my own family, but I do have my duty, you see. And I always knew, that no matter what I did, to turn against the king would have me branded for all eternity. Yet I accepted that in the end as a worthy sacrifice. Could you live with such a title?"

"You have no idea what titles and brands I've had to live with, Kingslayer," Harry said quietly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Think what you will, but no matter how you explain away the sacking, you just proved my point that you're an egotistical prick and care for none but yourself. That's all the confirmation I wanted in the first place for the stories I've been told. Appear in the courtyard in one hour, or I'll know I've gotten to you."

With that, he turned and strode inside, leaving Jaime seething at being played, and Tyrion mightily impressed.

* * *

Tyrion enjoyed his time at the brothel just outside the walls of Winterfell, but he was forced to hurry for the first time in many a year. He wouldn't miss this 'impromptu' duel for a thing in the world, perhaps not even a new dragon hatchling. Lord Potter must have had steel to back up his words, or he would never have dared speak them in the first place. For once, Tyrion was completely unsure if Jaime would win, and that feeling left him rather uncomfortable.

What made it worse was that he did not hate Lord Potter. He should have, and were it any other man who had belittled his brother in such a fashion, he certainly would have done. But something about the man was intriguing. He had a mysterious persona, and Tyrion resolved to figure him out. He even seemed intelligent enough to hold conversation with, which made it all the more interesting.

"Seven Hells, one might think me a fancier of boys if they could hear my thoughts," Tyrion said from between a pair of ripe breasts, thus proving his own suggestion completely unfounded.

"Perhaps the little lord has a secret desire deep inside of him," said the whore, whose name he couldn't remember.

"Hardly. I am oft intimidated by my own cock and fully doubt I could stand to see another alongside it... especially not a larger one."

"Have you seen his cock, then?" she asked playfully, grinning up at him.

"No, have you?"

She made a mock-thoughtful expression. "Hmm... who are you thinking of, again?"

"Lord Potter."

"I don't think he's visited us," she said after a moment. "The other girls were complaining – they have a wager on, to see the size of his mighty sword."

"I wouldn't be too optimistic if I were you," Tyrion said, entering her. "I hear the jewels make him very clumsy when he holds it."

After thirty rushed minutes, the shortest Lannister in recorded history replaced his breeches and rode back inside the castle walls, before heading to the courtyard. He could hear the clack of training swords and the twang of shortbows as they loosed arrows at targets made of straw. To his surprise, he found quite the crowd gathered, including the Stark children and Cersei, who stood quite far apart from them. Her own trio were gathered beside her. She looked on haughtily, undoubtedly disapproving, as Jaime got in a few practice swings. Apparently Ser Rodrik had decided to give them wood, rather than blunted steel. Someone, Tyrion thought that a wise decision. Killing with the latter was possible, after all. He wondered where the king and Lord Stark were in all this, but assumed Robert wanted more time to pay his respects and left it there.

Tyrion ignored Cersei and she him. He went to stand beside the younger Starks instead, hoping for less death threats and slightly more humour. The youngest boys stood enthralled, for whatever reasons. Sansa continued to throw looks his appalling nephew's direction, and Arya spared him a curious glance, but quickly averted her eyes.

Tyrion sighed as he approached. "It isn't a sin to stare, child. But have you never seen a dwarf before?"

The girl flushed slightly, and ran her eyes over him, what little of him there was. "Why do they call you the Imp?"

"Arya!" her sister scolded, turning around when a look of outrage. "Lord Tyrion, please forgive her. She doesn't have any manners," Sansa said, shooting her sister a filthy look at the end.

"Nor do the people who call me Imp," Tyrion grinned, eliciting a similar response from Arya and a blush from Sansa. "Merely due to my short size and devilish appearance, girl. Though don't be alarmed – I'm told my personality is much more likeable than my looks. After all, I'm not the one your vassal has challenged to a duel within an hour of first meeting him."

The eldest Stark child, Robb, was closer to his father in personality than any of the others, even if he was still but fourteen. He had a stronger, more confident voice than his siblings, which was not to be unexpected when one considered the circumstances of age.

"Lord Harry doesn't approve of how Ser Jaime conducts himself at times," Robb said, his eyes sweeping the courtyard as the two men finally strode out into the centre.

"I've noticed that," Tyrion muttered. "Who taught him?"

Robb and Jon Snow shared a wary look, before both turned to him.

_Oh,_ _you poor boys, _Tyrion thought. _You have so much to learn about this game of lies and secrets. _

"I can't quite remember, my lord," said Robb.

"Hmm, pity, that," Tyrion replied. "He must have had a great teacher to be so intelligent. After all, being Lord of Sea Dragon Point, of all places? One wonders what his game is. I might have to have a long talk or three with him after this friendly little competition. If Jaime doesn't collect his head, of course."

Robb looked taut, but that gave way to amusement. "Just watch, Lord Tyrion. I daresay the Kingslayer is about to be cut down to... well..."

"My size?" Tyrion grinned. "My father's heart will fail."

Robb gave a small smile and turned his head back to the proceedings. Tyrion followed his gaze.

As Ser Rodrik gave a cry of "begin!" the pair immediately switched to stances of increased wariness. Jaime held his wooden sword loose, pointing upwards in front of him, whilst Harry spun his in tight circles on either side of his body. With what Tyrion could have sworn was a grin, the younger man flourished the sword one final time before launching into an overhead swing, which Jaime caught with the edge of his own weapon, before retaliating with a series of two-handed slices back and forth in direction.

Harry was a fast swordsman, and met Jaime blow for blow, though he seemed more wary than the man he faced by half. Tyrion couldn't blame him. He watched as Jaime suddenly launched a combination that was meant to maim more than disarm, and was surprised to see Harry either block or dodge each and every strike. On the last, Jaime lunged, but Harry countered by deflecting the blow from behind his back of all places, and spun, whipping his sword directly for Jaime's head.

The Lannister talisman ducked and redoubled his efforts, taking aim at Lord Potter's midriff and legs in an effort to flaunt his flexibility. Harry did not appear cowed, however, as he dodged with ease, even jumping over an especially low attack and countering from mid-air. Jaime was forced to deliberately fall in order to dodge, such was his momentum in attacking, but he immediately plugged the gap in his defences by attacking from the ground, forcing Harry backwards. This allowed Jaime time to quickly rise, and the two warriors rejoined battle once again.

The blows were being traded back and forth in volleys, relentless and without fear of retaliation. At one point Harry took a step forwards and tried to move inside Jaime's instep, but Tyrion's brother was too experienced to fall for such a feint, and countered by taking a step back, flicking away the stab attempt with contempt. He took a powerful swing towards Harry's neck, but it was parried, and Harry dropped to one knee in an attempt to go underneath Jaime's guard.

Tyrion could tell that Harry was tiring. He clearly didn't have as much experience with this type of fighting as Jaime did, and it was beginning to show in his composure. Jaime nearly broke through his guard with several strikes, and the last had Harry taking a few deep breaths as he quickly backed away. Jaime could smell blood, and began to hurriedly advance.

That's when it happened.

To the shock of the courtyard, and most likely his foe, Harry threw his sword at Jaime, who was forced to smack it clumsily aside with his makeshift blade. He never even saw the ruse coming. By the time he found his stance again, Harry was upon him. It was a good thing Jaime had not worn armour for such a makeshift duel, as the punch Harry landed on his chest might have broken his hand otherwise. As it stood, the Kingslaver heaved and was forced to double over, allowing Harry to grab his sword arm and shirk behind him. From there, he did something peculiar to twist Jaime's arm and in one fluid spin, wrapped his own around it and knocked the sword from Jaime's hand. After that, he went back the other way, but maintained his grip. And he swept Jaime's right leg at the same time, while pushing forward on his chest with a free hand. All three of these actions happened almost simultaneously, and the result was that Jaime was flung off of his feet and into the dirt, ass first, having been disarmed.

Harry stood upright, panting, and wiped the sweat from his brow. The courtyard erupted into both laughter and cheers from Stark men, and the proffered hand was scorned as Jaime pushed it away and clambered to his feet. From how he carried himself, Tyrion knew his brother was in pain, but he refused to show it by holding the affected area. Instead, Jaime Lannister, ever prideful, glared at the man who had bested him, before storming off to parts unknown.

Harry shook his head and turned to leave in the opposite direction, getting a sharp slap on the back from Ser Rodrik as he did so.

"'Tis a pity we didn't place a wager, Lord Tyrion," said Robb from beside him. He was finally grinning outright. "No one has yet bested Harry in this courtyard."

"What in Seven Hells was that?" Tyrion exclaimed, all pretence forgotten. "I have heard of water dancing, but that..."

"Was without the use of a sword," Robb nodded. "I don't know who taught him what or how, but you cannot deny its efficiency. What use it would have in a real battle, I'm unsure. But in this type of situation? Perfect, in a word."

"Jaime would have beaten him had Lord Harry not thrown his sword like that," Tyrion said. "It was... impressive improvisation."

"Impressive?" Jon cut-in, incredulous. "I've never seen anything like it. And against the Kingslayer to boot! Have you?"

Tyrion shook his head slowly, not caring about the title used. His mind was occupied already. Indeed, Lord Harry Potter was proving to be a _very_ interesting fellow.

* * *

The feast that the Starks held in honour of King Robert was vivacious and grandiose. There were dozens of courses and plenty of wine, which sat well with Tyrion Lannister. After a conversation with the very unfortunate Jon Snow, who had embarrassed himself in front of his hosts and their guests, the Lannister man had turned to go back into the hall, only to find none other than the object of his many suspicions standing against the now-shut doors, arms crossed and armed with a thoughtful frown.

"That was a perfectly lovely speech," said Harry. "But it won't do a fat load of shit in a society that considers bastards inferior, except help Jon to feel better about being treated as such."

"What more do you expect?" Tyrion asked, genuinely surprised at his words. Seeing that the other man wanted this conversation, and not adverse to the idea himself, he ignored the doors and turned to walk across the courtyard, intending to circle the entire castle in the fine night air. Harry followed, at the same distance, but a few feet apart on his left. He seemed to be calculating.

"How about trying to change the system to make it fairer? Women, bastards, peasants... why not make things more inclusive for them all?" Harry asked openly.

"In order to do that, you would first have to change the mindset of the people," Tyrion intoned, "and when aplenty have been raised with rape and murder in their heads and in their hearts, that is oft a troublesome task. Who are you to aspire to such things, if I may ask?"

"Someone who's seen another side to what you know," Harry said, after a few moments. "I know it would take many years and we would have to start small, but altering the system to make room for other schools of thought? It's something to think about."

"Maybe don't say that in front of the king," Tyrion warned. "He might consider it a threat."

Harry snorted and shook his head as they turned a corner, leaving the drunken shouts of the feast behind them. "The king is a bloody fool. A fat drunkard known for whoring and letting the land go to waste. Imagine how an outsider would view this country."

"I don't think many would care," Tyrion frowned. "The lands to the east are worse, in many cases. At least slavery is against common Westerosi law. And there are no Dothraki here, which is quite a nice realisation, you know."

Harry seemed to pause for a minute. "I guess some outsiders would have different perspectives to others, in that case. Some might want change, yet be afraid to interfere. Or vice ver- or some might think the opposite."

"Fear of change stems from fear of the commoner," Tyrion said. "It's to be expected based on current viewpoints. And I am perfectly happy to live a grand old life of wealth and prestige."

"You say that," said Harry, stopping, which caused Tyrion to stop as well. For the first time in this conversation, they looked directly at one another. "But I think you care more than that. I can almost read your mind, and I see a man sick of corruption and deceit. I see a man who wants reform. You've seen the injustices I'm talking about. Hell, you've _lived_ with them and suffered them, even from your own family. Someone with your intelligence could do a lot of good, Tyrion. Never forget that."

The taller man turned and started to walk back, but Tyrion stopped him. "Harry."

"Yes?"

"Why are you saying this to me, of all people? We've had two conversations, if you count this one. And you embarrassed my brother in a manner no one ever has. By rights, we should be sworn enemies already."

Harry actually grinned. "I learned long ago that the house you belong to does not define what type of person you are, my lord, even if it's supposed to be evidence of your greatest traits. You aren't anything like Ser Jaime or Queen Cersei. How do I know that, you ask?"

Tyrion nodded.

"I can tell the right and wrong sort for myself, quite well, thank you. Think about what I've said."

"Let me give you some advice, then... different advice to what I gave Jon Snow," Tyrion said after a swig of wine. "Push for these societal changes if you must, but only speak in confidence to that _right sort_ and be wary of crossing the wrong ones. If you come with us to King's Landing, I'll be intrigued to see your interactions with people like Varys and Littlefinger. Stick with me and give me that peace of mind, and I'll do my part to keep you alive."

Harry stuck his lower lip out, then nodded a few times and straightened himself out. He held out a tentative hand, which Tyrion shook with a grin. "Agreed. Against my better judgement, I'm going to give you a word of advice too, Tyrion."

"Oh? And what is that, pray tell?"

"If you ever happen to cross a man with no nose, run very fast in the opposite direction."

The next time both men would speak, Bran had fallen.

* * *

**:Author's Notes:**

_\- "I do prefer the stories focus on one point of view rather than skipping from person to person. I realise this is perhaps not so much what fans of Game of Thrones agree with. Do you intent to keep doing so or?"_

I may have had a change of heart about the POV idea I originally set out, which is one reason for the absurd delay in publishing this chapter. I'll keep you all posted on this as I go on. If I do ultimately decide to change it, it won't be for a while anyway.

_\- "I'd really love to enjoy this but I have a feeling Harry being a Wizard is going to have little to do with this story making the crossover kind of pointless."_

Um, what? It has literally everything to do with the story and if it didn't, I wouldn't have bothered writing it in the first place.

_\- "After the Battle at the Ministry Harry's Shields were up to snuff to defend him from Voldermort and the only reason he sucked at it was Snape."_

Apologies for not posting the rest of your review, which was mostly positive encouragement, but I want this dealt with once and for all. _Dumbledore _said that the connection was closed because _Voldemort_ was employing Occlumency, not Harry. This occurs when he asks Harry if his scar had been hurting him over the summer, and Harry replies that it has not been. It's a bullshit reason on Rowling's part to prevent another DoM-type crisis, I agree, but it's there, unfortunately.

Anyway, this Occlumency debate has started to annoy me, to the extent that I'm doing two things from here on out. One - I'm speeding up the rate at which Harry learns Legilimency (see, I wasn't going to keep him ignorant of that forever; I merely believed making him a master at the beginning was an ex machina, as I've previously stated). Apologies for that spoiler, but I feel it needs to be addressed so we can all clear the air on this matter. Two - I'm making it punishable by death to look a king in the eye for more than three seconds... nah, just kidding. No one will have a natural defence against the mind arts... except possible Red Priests and White Walkers... and maybe select others with magical abilities... like wargs... hmm... **evil grin**.


	6. Harry, II

**Harry, II**

* * *

True to form, Harry stuck to the Lannisters like a plaster in the days following Bran's fall. They were intelligent people, and would most likely try nothing in the presence of a wary Eddard Stark, but he was damned if he'd give them the opportunity to prove him wrong. To his mixed feelings, Harry found himself enjoying conversations with Tyrion; although he was suspicious of all things blonde at the moment, a brief attempt at the Legillimency he was teaching himself showed that the dwarf was at odds with his family due to his birthing status.

Harry could sympathise.

Robb and Jon tended to help with surveillance but were unsure of what exactly they were hoping to find. Nobody knew what happened to Bran, but Harry's rationale for distrusting their guests was based on the rotten stench associated with the Lannister name itself together with his initial impressions, and although Ned did not agree to that concept aloud, it was clear he thought the same.

So, Harry played off his icy persona as a simple distrust of the Lannister house, rather than an outspoken suspicion that they had tried to murder Bran. Given his history lessons over the prior few weeks, most tended to accept this convenient excuse at face value. And yet, Harry was careful to not leave the children alone with the Lannisters. Ned was more hesitant, owing to his uncertainties on the matter, but Harry knew they couldn't rule out the possibility that the Lannisters hoped to slowly eliminate the Stark bloodline, jealous or perhaps fearful of Ned's appointment, and that Bran was a botched first effort.

It was a poor attempt on Harry's part at rationalising what had happened, but he simply had no other ideas as of yet and refused to believe that Bran had fallen. He kept repeating his efforts in penetrating the Kingslayer's mind, but since he was not an expert, all he could glimpse were feelings of pride and snobbery, until he could no longer hold the magic steady. Most unfortunately, Tyrion had been present when he attempted to use the spell on Cersei, so all he had gleaned from her was an overwhelming feeling of hatred for the dwarf, which did reinforce his earlier findings about Tyrion's relationship with the other Lannisters.

_If I'm only getting emotions, maybe I need to use that, _thought Harry. _Pure hatred is required for the killing curse. Love is what kept Voldemort at bay for a few moments after Sirius died. Maybe I need to focus on one thing in particular and drive forwards with it to master Legillimency once and for all. If I learned the Patronus charm at thirteen, I can do this quickly enough_ if_ I discover the correct method_._ If they hurt Bran, they'll pay dearly for it._

Anger.

Harry blinked in his musings. _Legillimency_ was the effect of forcing one's way into the mind of another, a violent action. If love was the counter to that, it stood firm that anger, rage and hatred were the catalysts.

It was worth a shot, and if it worked, Harry gave himself a few short few days before he was able to sweep aside the irrelevant memories like he would rake a pile of leaves and find what he was looking for. Desire made sense when it came to learning a spell of this sort, as he thought earlier. Magic came from determination more than anything. His finding of Voldemort after Fred's death was another example of that in action. It made perfect sense where the mind arts were concerned.

_I can't believe I was so blind to this,_ he thought, disgusted with himself. _It's no wonder that Snape couldn't teach me Occlumency, although I think I understand Dumbledore's actions a little better now. He must have hoped that my hatred for Snape would cause me to master the art quickly, so that I could keep him out of my thoughts... such a pity my curiosity towards Voldemort was stronger. Pure emotion is the trigger. It has to be. I have to find a way to own it._

And so he improved bit by bit with each training attempt, focusing his righteous anger at Bran's predicament, whom he had started to love as a brother, at the savagery of those who had hurt him and his friends, at Voldemort, at the world itself.

He was progressing quite remarkably.

Healing was a different story, as Harry found that he didn't know the correct wand form for many of the spells and could only guess at how best to control the flow of magic. It was a practical art, not a mental one. Hermione had once berated him for not carrying around a list of incantations, so that he might practice in his own time, and he now berated himself for the same reason. He held dozens of useful objects in his bottomless bag, such as additional wands, potions and objects that would aid him in the land, but only a few books, as he hadn't figured for much reading time in his pursuit of Voldemort. One of those _was_ for healing, however, and it was now the one that he studied arduously. The problem with learning a discipline like healing was human anatomy – there was simply so much to the human body that it took trainee healers years and years of study under professional tutors in order to master the most advanced healing spells, almost as if they were Muggle doctors learning new procedures for the first time. In order to put something back together, one first had to know how it functioned in the first place, which is why Harry couldn't have possibly taught himself everything with regards to the subject. He hoped Luwin could help a little.

A sliver of hope paid him a visit, as Harry rediscovered within the tome the spell that Lockhart had used on his broken arm so long ago. It had vanished the bones, but he suspected that was because Lockhart was an incompetent fop with the intelligence quotient of a lump of mouldy cabbage and _didn't _know how arms worked. The spell itself seemed sound enough, so he practiced it until the magical discharge felt natural and he was confident of success. Then, he found a bird with a broken wing and mended it in several tries, after visualising how a wing should look and function, wincing as he worried about a possible euthanizing were it to go wrong.

It did not. It, ahem, worked like a charm.

Harry watched as the raven, one of Maester Luwin's, hopped about on the table beside him, before stretching its wings as if to test them gingerly. Apparently satisfied, it gave a harrowing croak and flew though the window of his bedroom to return to the rookery. He started with surprise as he caught a glimpse of Tyrion Lannister in the courtyard. Not that the little man was surprising in himself, but his repetitive striking of Prince Joffrey in the face certainly was. The Hound, Joffrey's lapdog, seemed to mutter something to the dwarf before stalking after his prince.

Harry had a sudden idea. He wrestled with the risks of doing so before deciding it would be worth it and then hurried to catch Tyrion. This was going to set the Dementor amongst the Muggles for sure. When Harry found him, the little man was heading for breakfast, and he quickly fell in alongside him.

"Ah, are you here to join me, Lord Harry?" Tyrion asked. "Here I thought that all Stark men felt we Lannisters have the plague these past few days."

"I'm not a Stark, Lord Tyrion."

"Noted," the little man replied. "And just Tyrion, if it please you."

"Only if Harry pleases you."

Tyrion gave a small grin, almost unnoticeable. When he answered it was as though he were jesting. "You know, I must say it does. I do hope men aren't your fancy, let alone little ones, lest I be afraid. Just be warned that my siblings may not take so kindly to your idea of joining us. My brother rather hates you, I should think."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Harry said, deadpan. "And the queen?"

"She hates everybody _but_ him."

Harry laughed, against his better judgement.

They entered the serving hall, where Tyrion began to throw out requests for bacon, burnt black, bread and fish, beer to wash it down, and other such victuals. The serving men and women bustled to and fro, removing and adding platters per request as they did. Harry asked for his usual compliment of food, though he felt he could teach the cooks in Winterfell a thing or two, given the time. He was positively delighted by the looks on the Lannister twins' faces as he approached with Tyrion. Where Jaime hid his anger fairly quickly, Cersei was more open, and only mustered a half-smile at Tyrion's greeting. It was plain as day that she detested the pair of them, even if she did not say it. Her youngest children, Myrcella and Tommen, were a different matter. They reminded Harry rather a lot of Bran and Arya; young, excitable and friendlier than he would have dared guess any Lannister could be, although they _were_ Baratheons. He briefly wondered how Joffrey's attitude hadn't rubbed off on them, but shook it off as a minor miracle.

"How good to see you again, Lord Potter," said Jaime in a tone that suggested quite the opposite.

"And you, Ser Jaime. It's good to see you from a flat angle once more."

That comment did not sit well with the Kingslayer, as his grip tightened a little on his goblet of wine, but he let it pass without comment.

"Your Grace, Lord Tyrion invited me to join him," Harry said with a bow to the queen, before sitting himself beside the man and Prince Tommen.

"I'm glad you're in good health, Lord Potter," Cersei said, giving him a smile. It looked as though somebody had stabbed her upper gums with a pair of pins and forced her mouth to tilt upwards with lengths of string, but he pretended not to notice.

_Good God. How the fuck are these people in control of half the land if they haven't an ounce of subtlety between them? _

Despite thinking it, he knew that comment was rather unfair. Ned had told him that the Kingslayer cared nothing for politics and tended to offend as much as he spoke, and Cersei controlled nothing of any substance by herself. However, Tywin Lannister was another matter entirely, so the pedigree of the family name lived on through his strength, which was as resolute as ever. Harry had seen this type of coattail-riding behaviour before, namely in one Draco Malfoy, and scoffed at it inside his own head. Tyrion seemed to be his own man entirely, although Harry knew from comments directed his way that he was lucky to have been born into a noble house, given his unfortunate disposition. A peasant family may have murdered him as a newborn in the dead of night.

"And you, Your Grace," said Harry. He thought it about time to drop his grenade with the fuse intact. "I look forward to the journey south. I hear the Kingsroad is quite the spectacle."

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. "You're heading for the capital with Lord Stark, then?"

"I am," Harry nodded. "I think it would be wise to look for volunteers to help rebuild my settlement at Sea Dragon Point. Lord Stark promised northern volunteers, but they seem to be busy in stocking up for the winter, so I thought-"

"You might prefer some good, southern labour," Jaime finished for him, taking a drink. "I cannot fault you that logic."

"Indeed," said Harry, not rising to the comment. "I'd also like to see the capital for myself. I've never had the pleasure."

"There are many pleasures there for sure," said Tyrion, grinning. "Then again, most of them can be found almost anywhere there is a brothel. So long as the whores are clean and willing, a man could go anywhere from Sunspear to Mole's Town without missing out."

"The children have no need to hear your filth," Cersei snapped, as Tommen and Myrcella both laughed at the dwarf's words. She shepherded them both away without another word and did not return. Harry looked around, counting. He was pleased she had left. There were still a few servants present, but they did not look to be there for much longer.

"Are you still thinking of going north?" Jaime asked his brother, unaware of Harry's calculations.

Tyrion nodded around a mouthful of beer. "I want to see The Wall and piss off of it, provided my cock doesn't freeze as I do. Then I suppose it'll be back to the drains of Casterly Rock."

Harry did not mind that the two brothers were ignoring him. He turned and focused on his breakfast, enjoying it for what it was. Two slices of bacon, some bread and eggs, and a mug of the worst coffee he had ever tried. Again, he wondered at teaching the cooks how better to ply their trade. That is, until Ser Jaime spoke once again.

"You'll forgive me, Lord Harry, when I say this. It is not meant in poor taste, but I heard just today that the Stark boy – Bran – may live. Is that true?"

"It is," said Harry, trying his best to not grit his teeth_. I'm sure that's in terrific taste, Kingslayer._

Jaime seemed to wince, but covered the motion by clarifying: "I am glad, of course, but I hope he will not be in any pain if he should awake, nor that he'll be a cripple."

"I daresay it'll be neither of those," Harry spat. "Maester Luwin believes he could make a full recovery."

It was a lie, of course. Nobody but Harry and Ned thought that Bran had any chance of walking again, if he did awake. Nonetheless, Jaime's surprise betrayed his mask of calmness.

"The grace of the Seven must be upon him," he said, raising his tankard. "Or is it the Old Gods this far north? I forget."

"It could be either," said Harry, shrugging, seething, shaking. "I do hope we'll get to the bottom of how he fell, however. _If_ he fell. If not... well, I'd be happy to kill the one who pushed him, with my own two hands."

"I wouldn't blame you," said Tyrion, as he watched their reactions carefully. He could almost taste the hostility, or was that the piss-poor excuse for bacon? In any case, there was something afoot, and he would not remain ignorant for long if he could help it. "I hope the boy does wake up. It'll be interesting to hear what he says."

"Dear brother," said Jaime, flicking his eyes to Tyrion. "Sometimes I wonder whose side you're on."

"A suspicious comment," said Harry, glaring at the Kingslayer.

"Hardly. Even in minor disputes, family should side with family," Jaime said, just as hard.

"A fallacy," said Harry, knowing that the man would probably not understand the terminology. "I was referring to the _suspicions_ surrounding Bran's injuries. Did you see anything in that area – or any_body_ – when it happened, Kingslayer?"

"I did not," said Jaime.

"Really? Where were you when Bran was injured?"

"Taking a bath, I believe," said Jaime with a smirk. "It wouldn't do for a member of House Lannister to smell below their status. That is the task of _lesser _Houses. Wouldn't you agree, Tyrion?"

"You wound me," said Tyrion, grumbling as he ate. "Choosing a side in this genital-measuring contest is beneath even me, dear brother. Besides, you know how much I _love_ my family. I have Lannister interests at heart every hour of the day."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw that they were at last alone. He sent a non-verbal locking charm towards the doors from beneath the table and looked back to the Kingslayer. It was time to put his chips on the table and let that grenade detonate.

"You pushed him."

Tyrion fell silent at once, and looked up from his plate slowly. Harry's eyes bore into Jaime's, who looked furious beyond measure.

"Such a bold claim-"

"Do you deny it?" Harry interrupted.

"With every fibre of my being," Jaime growled.

"We'll see about that. _Legillimens!" _

Harry registered a look of surprise from the man as he pointed his wand into Jaime's face, but it was soon replaced by a torrent of hazy memories relating to the incident in question. Harry had led Jaime to thinking about this deliberately, and now he was reaping the rewards with his usage of _l__egillimency_. The memories he saw were muddled and violent, until he began to employ his newfound focus. He then saw Jaime with Cersei and was appalled at their actions. He watched as Bran interrupted them and felt a lump appear in his throat. The three exchanged brief words, before Jaime declared _"The things I do for love", _and pushed the Stark boy from the window.

With a gasp and a heave upon his magical reserves, Harry tore himself from the Kingslayer's mind after the effort to not erupt in anger threatened to tear both of their heads asunder. He stared at the man, who was panting for breath and looking... fearful?

Harry took a moment to register what he had seen, but when he did, his wand snapped back up to Jaime's face, and the look of calculation in his eyes was replaced with one of murderous desire.

"You piece of shit," he hissed. He froze Jaime in place with a body-bind and leaned in close. "I'd kill you here and now, if that wouldn't implicate me in your death. Know this, _Ser_ Jaime: one day, when you least expect it, I'm going to take a lot of joy from killing both you _and_ your sister, you fucking insect. Remember that, even if you forget the rest of this little chat. You are _mine_, Kingslayer. If I have to figure out how to bring you back from the dead just so I can kill you all over again, I will. And when I come for you, in the dead of night, I'm going to feed you to the wolves. That should be a fitting end. _Obliviate!"_

Harry cancelled the body-bind. "We three were sitting here talking about Bran's fall. I informed you that he may live. Tyrion said he is going north before returning home. That is all." With that, he ended the manipulation of the Kingslayer's memories and allowed him to regain his composure, as though nothing had happened.

Harry then looked to Tyrion, who sat, mouth ajar, staring at him. "Walk with me," he commanded with hard eyes, secretly unlocking the door once again.

Tyrion was in no mood to disobey after that performance and quickly followed Harry out of the room, while Jaime went back to his breakfast without a care in the world, other than to shoot Harry a venomous glare as he left the room. Harry led Tyrion outside, then to the Godswood. Along the way the little man fumbled constantly.

"I... I..."

"You don't love your family in the slightest," Harry declared, as they entered the clearing. He cast a charm and determined that they were alone, wincing internally at the crackle of arcane energy that appeared suddenly to his eyes only. "I know – I saw it in your mind. I may not be an expert _yet,_ but that much is clear. You despise your father and your sister. You seem to love your brother, but I'll disabuse you of that misguided feeling by telling you that he pushed Bran from that tower. He did so after Bran caught him _fucking_ your sister!"

Tyrion swallowed and a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, but he finally regained his composure, despite the fear in his eyes. "Hold up a little. What in Seven Hells did you do to him?!"

"_Expecto patronum!" _said Harry immediately, pointing his wand off to the side. He saw the look of astonishment on Tyrion's face as Prongs burst forth, but then recalled the stag after a few seconds. The Lannister did not remove his eyes from that spot, however, until Harry snapped his fingers.

"You'll forgive me for not understanding," said Tyrion quietly.

"I am a wizard," Harry declared, thinking of how similar this would be to his first meeting with Ned. "Last time we spoke, I talked about how outsiders would view this land, and the reason is that I am not from here. I _am_ an outsider, not just to Westeros, but to the entire world as you know it. I come from a place where magic – which is what I am using – can be controlled through a wand such as this." He held the wand up for Tyrion to see. "I read your brother's mind, I read yours and I read your sister's, although her thoughts were blinded by her hatred for you because you were present at the time."

Tyrion did not react to that, which Harry suspected was because he knew of her feelings all too well.

"I'm sworn to House Stark, but I only came here in order to track a criminal known as Voldemort, an extremely dangerous wizard from my own land. He is here, hidden in Westeros, and I'm going to King's Landing because I suspect it is the perfect playground for him to indulge in. I'll find him and kill him if I can, but in the meanwhile, I'll help Lord Stark with his role as Hand of the King, for he gave me shelter when I needed it most, and has treated me like family. Companions of mine may also join us here, if I can fix it to be possible, but I don't know for sure as of yet."

"Those are a lot of words," Tyrion said, after thinking it through for a few minutes. He began to pace, arms folded. When finally he looked at Harry again, his face held determination, something that Harry had been hoping for. "Why are you telling me all of this, Lord Potter? I am assuming you removed my brother's recollection of what just happened, so why extend me this courtesy instead of giving me the same treatment?"

Harry let out a breath. He knew that question was coming. "It's because of who you are."

"A dwarf?"

"A dwarf is a part of _what_ you are, not _who,_" Harry corrected. "You're not a thing to _me_, Tyrion, but I suspect you already know that. You're a person and you hate your family, much as you like to use the Lannister name to make your way through life. They've treated you like shit since the day you were born, and you want rid of them. I don't know all of the reasons behind it, but I'm suspecting you know I have a point, else you'd be trying to flee."

"I'm in shock," Tyrion admitted, "and I would not get very far on these legs in any case. But for what it's worth... my sister has always hated me, I must say. She blames me for the death of our mother, who passed during childbirth. Our father... well, he _is_ a cunning bastard and hates me quite as much as Cersei does, for the same reasons."

Harry blinked, not expecting this. "That's... that is, it wasn't-"

"Wasn't my fault," Tyrion finished, smiling solemnly. "I know that. I have spent many years reassuring myself that I did not kill the woman who carried and birthed me, but Cersei is both cruel and vindictive, and father is father. They see things a mite differently. Jaime has never blamed me, so I gave him my love. For what it's worth, Lord Potter, I know of their relationship already. I've just never cared. The king, on the other hand..."

"The king would kill them both and declare war on House Lannister if he knew," said Harry, nodding. "Perhaps I should tell him myself."

Tyrion drew a breath and nodded. "You could, but I suspect that you won't. Lord Stark would, but you know the consequences of that action all too well. Lannisters would cross blades with Starks, and we _are_ in Winterfell."

Harry smirked at him, and Tyrion's insides turned to ice.

"You have no idea," he said quietly. "You have absolutely no idea how easy it would be for me to subdue every single one of your soldiers without so much as breaking a sweat. I could kill your brother and sister, incapacitate every swordsman and then have the rest of you think the convoy was attacked by brigands a hundred miles away, all in the space of a minute. Nobody but myself and Lord Stark would ever know. Bran? I can figure out how to heal him, with time. It'll be like nothing ever happened, except the deaths of Jaime and Cersei Lannister."

Tyrion looked genuinely afraid for a moment, before he drew himself to a rational conclusion. Such things were his forte, after all. "The final destination of the king's 'convoy' was reached days ago, my lord. Word will have spread all along the Kingsroad, and my father himself will likely know of our whereabouts by now. If you _were_ to do that, you might fool everybody inside Winterfell, but outside..."

"Why do you think I haven't done it?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. He was impressed by Tyrion's ability to think rationally under such pressure, which reassured him that he was making the right choice in trying to enlist his help. "I'm not a fool, Tyrion. If I do anything openly hostile here it will be a declaration of war, and the Starks are in the firing line, which means they would be the casualties, as you said. The whole of Westeros would know. I have no doubt we would defeat your father in any battle I take part in, but that is not my wish. I have a need to go to King's Landing for my own business, and if I don't go quietly, that business will be impossible to conduct. Voldemort will seize the opportunity to do... something. Something that I wouldn't like and which would result in countless innocent deaths. And even if he didn't, open war isn't something I want on my conscience. By the way, I've told you already to call me Harry. I'm not your enemy."

Harry left out that he could quite easily put Jaime under the _i__mperius_ curse and make him admit to what he had done. He only chose to not do that because he needed things to remain calm whilst looking for Voldemort and that action, as with many others, would lead to war when word reached Tywin Lannister. Harry genuinely believed that Tywin was the most dangerous man in Westeros where Harry's actions were concerned, save Voldemort, and he genuinely began to fear that the two were in collusion. He would need to speak of this with Ned at a later time.

"So does that mean I'm free to go?" asked Tyrion, although Harry knew he was digesting the rest of that information on the inside.

"Of course," said Harry, waving his hand. "Right after I alter your memories."

Tyrion sighed. "I do think that is all to the better, by this point. However, I hate to be ignorant of anything, especially where it concerns my family. What would you have of me to keep my brain intact? It _is_ my most redeeming quality, after all."

"Fuck the Wall. Come with us to King's Landing. You're a smart man. I can tell from our previous conversations and from this one. You also hate your family as much as I and Lord Stark do. I want your help to figure out what the hell is going on and in finding Voldemort."

"You surprise me, _Harry. _Why should I trust you?"

"Tyrion, if I wanted to, I could have you live out the rest of your days as a bald man in a monkey suit, juggling plates in a Mummer's troupe," said Harry with a laugh. "You wouldn't remember that you were a Lannister at all. Or I could have you drown yourself in the pond over yonder. Or maybe I could have you run to the Wall naked and see how long you last en-route before turning into an icicle. My point is: I'm not doing any of those things. I'm showing you trust by speaking to you as an equal, just as I've done with Lord Stark."

"Lord Stark knows of you? Also, I find it amusing to think of myself juggling."

"He and a few others know of my true origins and abilities," Harry admitted. "Help us and I..."he trailed off, looking at the ground.

"You what?" asked Tyrion.

"...I'll take you with me when I leave," said Harry, looking up again. "You can have a fresh start in my world, if you'd like, and I know you would enjoy the experience. No more Lannisters, no more stares, no more hatred. Well, not as much hatred, anyway."

Tyrion gave him a grim smile, and scratched his head. Harry felt it was safe at last to unhand his wand, and instead drew his cloak around him for warmth as the other man thought about what he had been offered. Finally, he spoke.

"Perhaps one day I might take you up on that arrangement," said Tyrion, "but for the moment it seems that we are both stuck here. And I do play this game of politics exceedingly well, I must say. I feel that you have the measure of me, L- Harry. And perhaps I of you. Indeed, it is a rare man who does not take the word 'measure' and jest about it where I am concerned."

Harry smiled. "I'm not that sort of person, Tyrion." He quietly tried some wandless Legillimency, which was much more difficult to utilise and which he only had control of for a brief moment. It was enough. He saw that Tyrion agreed with everything he had said and would keep his secrets, so there was no need for a memory charm. Even his hopes of redeeming Jaime had been dashed by the revelation that he had pushed Bran, if only by a fraction. Harry winced but understood that dedication; if Ron or Hermione had done something unspeakable, he would do everything possible to give them the benefit of the doubt. Besides, Tyrion had just been introduced to magic and likely wanted – nay, _needed_ – confirmation of another sort before condemning the only member of his family who had ever shown him any love. Nonetheless, he would help Harry.

"Understand that I do not love the Starks," said Tyrion in a serious tone. "And I do not love you either. But I do trust you. I shall help you, Harry, but not out of loyalty. I think it'll be of interest and wish to be where things shall unravel as they do so, especially since they'll more than likely result in war if not handled correctly. I cannot afford to miss these events, I fear. I can piss off the edge of the world some other time."

He stuck his hand out and Harry, grinning a little at his words, shook it.

"Thank you for agreeing to help. Lord Stark will distrust you at first, but I can help assuage his doubts. This is important, Tyrion. I'm not of this world, but even I know what we do could keep it whole, or lead to its destruction if we don't tread carefully. Voldemort is here, and that is my responsibility. He is more dangerous than every warlord in this realm by a multitude of ten."

"We all have our responsibilities," Tyrion assured him. "And on that very note, I feel my father will cast me out should he ever learn of this."

"He won't," said Harry. "Learn of it, that is. No one will. You'll be working with us in secret, just as my true identity will be secret. I'll also have to ask you for an oath to never reveal anything about me without my permission. You can't use magic, but I'm willing to trust you to your word."

"I swear it," Tyrion nodded, and Harry felt his earnestness.

"Good. Now, let's get to work."

"Give me some time, if you would," said Tyrion, breathing deep. "I feel I should visit the brothel outside Winterfell for the rest of the day. I shan't run away."

"I know," said Harry, amused by the little man's... stamina. "I'll speak to you in the morning."

* * *

"Are you certain of this?" Ned asked in clipped tones, his eyes hard as granite.

Here, Harry hesitated. He had gone straight to Ned after his conversation with Tyrion and requested a quiet word. They stood alone in the welcoming hall of Winterfell, with the doors bolted and silencing wards enacted. "The Mind Arts are not easy to master, Ned. A skilled Legillimens will sift through someone's thoughts and memories like a book, fully able to find what they're looking for with nothing save instinct alone. I was never very proficient in this branch of magic, and the only masters I know of died a long time ago, so I haven't been properly trained."

Somewhere in his own thoughts, Harry heard words echoed from long ago. _"The mind is not a book, Potter..." _He snorted, which drew Ned's attention.

"So you're _not_ certain?" Ned asked, clearly impatient.

"I'd say that I have the technique figured out," Harry said. "I trained myself as best I could and had a reason to succeed – a desire to protect somebody I've come to care for in Bran. I was able to find the correct memory, but saw many other things in the Kingslayer's mind too. I drove him to thinking about things he regrets and saw him kill the Mad King, for one. When I focused on the fall... I saw it happen."

Ned sighed in frustration. His grip tightened on the pommel of his broadsword as he paced around the room, and the cogs in his brain were as clockwork to Harry. His eyes snapped back to the young wizard. "I understand, but I must press you for a straight and simple answer. Did the Kingslayer attempt to murder my son or no?"

Harry hesitated once again. Much resided on this answer. "...yes. Yes, he did. He was with Cersei, and pushed Bran from that window after they were caught in the act."

"It's good enough for me," Ned declared. He gave a sharp nod and marched over to the door.

"Lord Stark, stop," said Harry in a commanding tone of voice.

Ned froze, his hand on the door handle. There it was again – that voice of war, of command, the one that he had heard from Harry the first time they had met. That Harry cared so much for Ned's family... that and the voice he was now using did surprise him enough that he actually stopped, and he also looked back over his shoulder, although his expression had not changed from one of bloodlust. He expected Harry to be intimidated by that, but was impressed to find that he wasn't.

In fact, these were just Harry's assumptions about what Ned was thinking. He had this man figured out by now, and knew how he thought. It was why Harry trusted him and considered him a friend. He had more honour than most any other adult Harry had ever known.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"You know where," said Ned in a low voice.

"What will you do?" Harry asked rhetorically. "Kill him? Beat him until he submits? Torture him until he reveals what he did?"

"Something, damn it!" Ned growled, squeezing the door handle so tightly that the frame began to rattle. He took a deep breath and released it, before stepping back.

"You have no evidence," said Harry. "None. What will you tell them? That Jaime admitted to it? That Bran remembers the fall? He hasn't awoken and the Lannisters would know you're lying-"

"I don't need _them_ to know_," _Ned replied. "Not so long as mine own kin know the truth of this."

"Then you would start a war," said Harry, "when I can assure you that one is already headed your way. And it's much more important than this matter, I'm sorry to tell you. Ser Jaime will pay for this, but not now. You can't tell them your Wizarding friend read his mind, can you? And he'll never admit to what he did. I'm going to keep a very close eye on him when we reach the capital, and I'm going to practice my Legillimency too until I can pluck the thoughts out of his head without an effort. It's about time I mastered the ability – Merlin knows I'm going to need it down there."

"So you want me to do nothing proactive?" Ned demanded.

"What the fuck does _proactive_ mean?" Harry snapped. "Would you lop off his head and be done with it? There's more to this that we don't know about yet! How many know of his relationship with Cersei? How do we approach the king, and when? How far does this corruption seed in King's Landing and all across the realm? We have to unravel the truth of it before we can bring all of the perpetrators to justice."

Ned looked thoughtful. "You're right, of course... Jaime had a reason to do what he did, although it makes me all the angrier. My own son... may the Old Gods and the new curse him... to betray his king like this, and then attempt to murder a child? _My _child? Of all the knights in the Seven Kingdoms who would murder a child, I do think that-"

"Don't finish that thought," said Harry. "I know what you're going to say and you're wrong. Ser Jaime isn't the worst, as disgusting as that prospect is. Gregor Clegane, for one. He has previous. Countless others too."

Ned sighed and stroked his beard wearily. "I had hoped to be rid of these disgusting people," he admitted. "When I left for Winterfell after Robert's rebellion it was in full hope of never being dragged into this Mummer's farce again. And then, on the very first day even _before_ I've accepted the position of Hand, my son is almost murdered, I uncover a plot in the Lannister household involving an illegitimate relationship between the queen herself and her brother, and now I have a desire to kill the Kingslayer in cold blood after all that has happened. And that is not to say I have forgotten the death of Jon Arryn either."

"Politics is murder," Harry muttered with dry humour. "You know how sorry I am about Bran. It hurts me almost as an older brother. I suspect rumblings over my lack of healing magic would exist if your family knew of me, so I'm going to correct that wrong too. Stall them for a week, and I'll teach myself enough to mend your son's legs. I'm almost there as is, insofar as bones are concerned."

"I understand your feelings, and I appreciate the depth of caring," Ned nodded. "I appreciate that you are trying. The children think very highly of you and Cat does too. And so do I... but if you can truly do something to help Bran... "

"I swear it," Harry declared. "And thank you, Ned... what you describe is a mutual feeling, on all counts. The Lannisters have done some awful things and your family doesn't deserve to be caught in the centre. As my people would say, this is the straw that breaks the camel's back. I'm going to help you, because we have mutual interests, because you helped me in my time of need and I care for you all... and because it's who I am."

"What have you planned?" Ned asked, carefully eying the younger man.

Harry smirked, and Ned was reminded his friend was extremely confident, yet able to back that confidence up with raw power and talent. Harry knew that Ned would hesitate in hearing this, but he had to try.

"I'm going to see what dirt we can't dig up," he said. "In King's Landing I'm going to start trying to uncover what else the Lannisters are doing. Whatever it is, it can't be pretty, but I intend to find out. I could drag it out of them now, but this goes further than the twins. It has to. You should keep a close eye on the king. He might be a complete arsehole and a bigger fool than almost anyone I've ever met, but he's on our side and he'll be targeted if they suspect we're onto them."

"You think they would kill him?" Ned exclaimed, looking aghast. Harry knew he wasn't happy about his description of Robert, but Lord Stark made no comment on that matter. It was a popular opinion, after all, and Ned knew it to be a reasonable one.

"I think they would kill a seven year old," Harry said, and Ned nodded reluctantly, understanding.

"Harry... I must thank you," Ned said, looking at him straight in the eye. "No matter what happens, no matter what we discover from this matter, you have been a friend to the House of Stark, a friend to my family, and a friend of mine own. I cannot begin to repay you for the kindness you've shown us."

"I think that's my line," Harry smiled, clasping the elder Stark's forearm as a brother in arms would. "You gave me a home when I didn't know where to go next. If you hadn't been as good a person as you are, I'd be sleeping rough and trying to make my way south right now. Or possibly even north, since I wouldn't have had a clue without your help. Trust me when I say that I'll always be grateful, Ned. And my own goal aside, I won't rest until this issue is resolved."

"Didn't you once speak of a policy to not interfere?" Ned asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry understood what he meant. He backed off again. "I did, but that was because none of us had imagined an emotional attachment like the one I feel towards your family. In other words: fuck that policy."

Ned smiled a little, and Harry relaxed. Lord Stark would be a dangerous man when provoked and given the circumstances, Harry suspected he would cleave the Kingslayer in two if it came to blows, talent with a blade aside. Now that he had calmed Ned down, he chose to raise another matter.

"I trust Tyrion," said Harry. "I used Legillimency on him, and found that he hates his family almost as much as you we do, although that's obvious if you speak to him anyway. He has some love for Jaime, and knew of his relationship with Cersei, but chose to tell me that willingly. He won't stop us when we reach King's Landing and wants to help, probably to kick dirt in Tywin Lannister's eyes. He could be a valuable ally."

Ned's smile had disappeared upon Harry's third word, replaced by a frown that caused worry lines to appear upon his brow. The elder Stark sat upon a stool in the hall they occupied and crossed his arms.

"If you were another, I would have cause to doubt you. But with your... abilities... I find myself forced to take you at your word," he admitted.

Harry shook his head and let his accent slip. "Nah, you don't. That's what trust is for, Ned. If you told me this instead, I'd trust you even though you can't use magic. You're my friend. Don't just force yourself to believe me on all of this; work it out for yourself and decide if you trust me or not."

"I do," said Ned immediately. "When I think on everything that has happened, including _your_ trust of me and my family, I have every reason to trust you. It's what stayed my hand only a few minutes ago, and it's why I'll believe you now. We can rely on Tyrion Lannister too, you say – very well. What should be our next move?"

"I hope I don't have to convince you to _not_ tell Robert," said Harry, grimacing. He also sat and folded his leg over the other. One hand stroked the beard he had grown, and the other rested against his chest. He was garbed in Stark colours, which showed his place among the household. Gryffindor's sword, as it oft was these days, remained across his back. Science showed that drawing from the back was next to impossible, but the sword's magic allowed him to do so. He alternated between his back and his hip for the sake of comfort.

"_I _had hoped you wouldn't say that," Ned grumbled. "He deserves to know the truth, even if you don't approve of his temperament."

"To put it mildly," Harry snorted. "Still, I don't disagree with you, but consider this: what will he do if we tell him about Cersei and Jaime?"

"Kill them both."

"And declare war on Tywin Lannister."

"You can't know that," Ned pointed out. "As his Hand and oldest friend I could convince him otherwise, especially with your help."

Harry eyed his friend carefully. "Maybe... but you don't want me to use magic on any of our friends, do you? Even to read their minds?"

"Are you suggesting otherwise?"

"The lesser of two evils is still evil, but choosing it will prevent incredible death and destruction," said Harry. "I could _imperius _Robert, _if_ we come up with a plan for dealing with the Lannisters beforehand. Technically, I have the power to control the entire Small Council, the Kingsguard, the armies in the capital and all of the crown's vassals. I don't say this lightly because I don't _like_ thinking of those things, but it could be done. Of course, if Voldemort has already done it..."

"You think he has control of the king?" Ned asked, aghast.

"Hell, I hope not," Harry muttered, frowning. "But I don't know. Under the _imperius _of a master like Voldemort_, _Robert would still appear perfectly normal to even his closest friends. Of course, that bastard could be anywhere in the Kingdoms, across the Narrow Sea, or north of the Wall."

"So what do you propose?"

Harry cast a second silencing charm around the room, just to be sure.

"It's time to take the kid gloves off," said Harry. "Until I find Voldemort, realign that damned portal and figure out how to get my friends here, it's just the two of us and those we choose to trust. Your wife, sons and Tyrion... oh, and Maester Luwin, are all a part of that group, and I'm sure there will be others, but for now we should try and gain a position of strength.

"We need to take control of the crown, although if you want to use friendship to do that rather than magic, I'll support you," Harry added, seeing Ned's unhappy expression. "I don't like manipulating people who don't deserve it, even if your friend Robert is open for debate on this matter. To that end, we'll need to plan what to do in King's Landing before getting there. Tyrion will help – I convinced him to stay away from the Wall. You should leave Jon and Robb here with your wife and daughters. They won't like it, but it's for their own safety. I also doubt you'll want to keep Sansa's engagement with Joffrey on the table now that you know the truth about the queen's children."

Ned blanched. "Jon and Robb told me that he's a horrid child in any case."

"Because I told them to," said Harry, smiling grimly. "Joffrey is a vicious little cunt, and I understand why. 'Poor breeding', as you would call it. We would talk about 'genetic deficiency' back home, courtesy of incest. Either way, you need to annul that marriage proposal post-haste. And I'm not trying to give you orders, Ned, I promise," he added, wincing as he realised that was exactly how it sounded. "I've just been thinking about this since I read Jaime's mind, and I think it's for the best."

"Nay, I take no offence," said Ned. "I would follow these particular courses of action were our roles reversed. The girls will remain here with Cat and I'll think of some excuse to give Robert on that count. As my heir, Robb needs must do the same. But Jon... He wishes to take the Black, Benjen told me."

"I'll speak to him," Harry promised. "I know it's your right as his father, but he needs to hear it from me. I'm causing a lot of shit to spiral out of control and need to explain myself, even if only a little."

Ned shifted, looking uncomfortable. He wouldn't meet Harry's eyes for a moment.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

After a few seconds of drawn-out thought, Ned looked up again, and Harry saw that his expression was haunted. It was alarming, seeing his friend suddenly appear a decade older and... ashamed?

"I need to tell you the truth," he said. "I trust you with this, where I have trusted no other, not even Catelyn or Jon himself. I... I am not Jon's father."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I had no idea. I thought he was a bastard, but I'll admit I was surprised by the idea of you... well..."

"Sullying my wife's honour," said Ned bitterly. He tsked. "I have dishonoured her enough by not speaking of this sooner, but I swore a vow, and..."

"And your honour is your life," said Harry quietly. "You don't need to explain yourself or admit to it. But why the secrecy?"

Ned stood up slowly. He looked at the far wall, before beginning to pace. He was clearly deep in thought and Harry, surprised by this change in subject, gave him the time he needed to think of what to say next. For his own part, Harry ran his mind over what had happened since he arrived in Westeros. He had devised a mental checklist to be sorted, and thus far it consisted of:

_Find the portal_

_Repair the portal_

_Wait for contact from Hermione and Ron_

_Find Voldemort_

_Figure out how to kill him quickly_

_Ensure the safety of House Stark _

_And, if I'm really going for broke... try to heal the land with Ned's help. _

None of those had been checked off, and all of them were of paramount importance. Each carried with it a significant risk factor, not just for Harry, but for the entire nation. Harry hadn't forgotten about the risks of using magic in Westeros before the portal was realigned, but he had risked it with Tyrion and Jaime and was now concerned for the safety of all present if he did so again. He really hated the impairment. It was asinine.

_Perhaps I should figure out how to use magic in the meantime. We haven't studied this enough. If Dean and Seamus died because of over-casting with a misaligned portal, it makes sense to be afraid, but nobody has been able to figure it out because of the risks if it _is_ true. What if Voldemort can use magic without worrying about being destroyed because he knows he won't be? Did Dean and Seamus just destroy the portal on their side with fiendfyre, rather than obliterate the world by using magic? Fuck me, is it that simple? If it is, what was the flash I saw when casting spells for the first time after arriving in Westeros, and then today again? Those flashes have followed me to every world I've been to – hell, they're the reason I've been so nervous the entire time. Hermione said they're the result of drawing energy from our universe abroad, but she can make mistakes too. Are they really just the result of drawing magic from the particles of our universe without the dangers? Does it even _work_ like that? Maybe they're not dangerous after all... damn it. I need to think about this more. None of us have been certain, so we've erred on the side of caution, a sentiment that I might have to abandon all too soon. _

_No. There's no fucking way Voldemort would let us follow him unchecked if our use of magic would destroy this reality. He's not that stupid. Again, I've been blind._

Before he could berate himself further, Ned spoke again at last.

"You must understand," said Ned at last, stopping. "This is the worst vow I have ever sworn for its cost. I promised my sister... Lyanna... that I would look after her child. She died shortly after giving birth. _"Promise me, Ned," _she told me. _"Promise me..."_"

Harry felt a pang of sympathy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered words unspoken, as _she_ lay in his arms, her red hair swaying behind her, her lifeless eyes staring up at nothing. He had wept in that moment, that night, and for the following month, and more than once he had turned his wand on himself, planning to utter those two words that would end it all.

But he had stopped himself, knowing that he must continue. Voldemort would die before Harry. He would. Harry would not rest until that day, yet now he had something else to live for.

_House Stark is my family, _he declared, feeling purified by doing so.

And Eddard Stark, a man of unshakeable honour... he had never betrayed his wife, yet had lived with the shame of doing so nonetheless, a victim of unworthy barbs and insults, the likes of which the Kingslayer rightly endured. He had taken in the child Jon Snow, called him his bastard and protected him, all on the back of a promise he had made to his dying sister. But that begged the question... protect him from what?

Harry looked to Ned for an answer.

"Lyanna," he said, so quietly that it was little more than a whisper. "She ran away with him... the Targaryen prince. Rhaegar."

Harry's eyes widened at the implication. "The rebellion!"

"It was a lie," Ned said, clearly morose. "The Mad King had a need to face justice, but Rhaegar... he did not kidnap and rape my sister, as Robert believes. The two ran away together, for Rhaegar had no desire to practice polygamy and knew Robert's wrath would follow him, and he hid her before returning to fight the war. After Robert killed him on the Trident and we took King's Landing, I rode south alone. I had to. Robert was pleased by the deaths of Elia and Rhaegar's children, courtesy of _Tywin Lannister_ and his dog Clegane, and I could not bear to see him for fear of killing him for that. We were only reunited after Lyanna's death.

"I rode south to the Tower of Joy after fighting the last battles of the war alone; there, Ser Arthur Dayne waited with two more of the Kingsguard. He was the single greatest knight I have ever seen, holding aloft the greatsword Dawn, fearless, honourable and deadly. I remember that day as though it were this very morning. It was the day that I lost my honour, earned it back, and then blackened my name for years to come for the sake of family."

And Harry listened, enraptured, as Ned wove his tale.

* * *

**:Author's Notes:**

Not dead yet.

There's a reason this chapter cut off where it did, which you'll discover next time. No, it will not take more than a year to write and publish. I have been exceptionally busy with finishing university, moving to China for an internship and then home again, and now working. Thankfully, only work is now applicable.

You may be curious about a couple of things, namely the portal and the Harry-Voldemort mind connection. Think of the former like a Stargate and the stones as chevrons. I'll explain the rest of the details through plot. The latter will be brought up in the next chapter, although you can probably guess what's happened to it from reading Deathly Hallows. On that note, I _told_ you I had a plan for the mind arts. Oh, well. I wish I hadn't said anything now, so I'll probably delete it from the previous footnote for future readers.

Oh, and Harry's bottomless bag will be explained when it's required. He hasn't needed it yet and I hate unnecessary 'trunk/bag/wardrobe' filler scenes in HP FF.

Interestingly, I forgot to mention this earlier, but this is a story more about Harry bonding with the Starks than about Harry and Voldemort, although that counts too, of course.

Magical transportation devices and techniques will be discussed soon, as I'm sure many of you have been curious.

I have plans for Jon and Dany, as they are the wildcards in this.

Not too much back-story for Harry here besides that **one **key scene, but this is going to be a long story, so there's more room for development. Finally, this brings me to the most important point here, which I'm underlining for emphasis. Remember how I lost my files ages ago and that upset and/or(and) annoyed me? Well, I decided to restructure character POVs as a result. We now have: Robb, Tyrion, Arya, Jaime, **MORE** Harry, and others that I won't mention for the sake of avoiding spoilers. That is all.

**P.S. - **Jaime is my joint favourite character of the series proper (along with Tyrion) so don't even **think** about flaming me for Harry's treatment of him in this chapter, because it probably hurts me more than it hurts many of you. I love the man for his wit and development, but he deserves to be raked across the coals pre-Brienne for being a bastard by nature.

Lots of love, folks!


	7. Voldemort, I

**Voldemort, I**

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle, so-named for his father and his grandfather together, had many years ago adopted the moniker of Lord Voldemort, having cast aside any allusion to his Muggle origins.

Voldemort was not a stupid man – quite the opposite, in fact; he did not do this out of simple pettiness or hatred of the world of Muggles, although that hatred _was_ much evidenced in his treatment of their kind over the years in which he had come to power. He did not discard his birth status due to 'daddy issues' or out of some misguided notion of faux-superiority. It was, after all, impossible to maintain the healthy image of a dark lord whilst struggling with the emotional problems of a baseborn child. Thus, Voldemort had resolved these issues many years prior; namely, on the night in which he had committed patricide. The cathartic rush of casting that spell towards the man who had left his mother for dead was stronger than even the most powerful rush of sexual pleasure, or so he remembered from the time before he had sacrificed coital functions for the sake of immortality.

Lord Voldemort was a smart man, one so much so that he had felled the Wizarding government of England – as trite and incompetent as it may be – out of fear alone. Fear of a _name,_ of all things. This was why he had adopted the moniker of 'flight from death' and used it to instil terror in the hearts of his enemies; the idea that he could best any witch or wizard in single combat was _terrifying_ to the other party. To convince them that he was above even death... nay, above all human conviction, led to a near-universal fear.

Voldemort had brought the Wizarding World to its knees... with the anagram of a child at play. Granted, he had had help from likeminded allies and minions, but they had needed a force to rally behind, and there was no greater force than the combination of politics and financial capital in an increasingly greed-driven society. _"The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting", _and he had done so with minimal large-scale conflict. Guerrilla tactics worked wonders.

Yes, he had read Sun Tzu. He was a well-read man, Lord Voldemort, both in the Muggle and Magical studies of interest; deceiving the unwashed masses into thinking he was ignorant of Muggle ways out of hatred for their kind was something that amused him endlessly. Sometimes, he even laughed – almost to the point of tears – when thinking about the victories he had won and the deaths he had caused through such deception. In truth, the Lord Voldemort – not that he cared for the position of lordship so much so as emperor or king – had read extensively throughout his youth, almost to the point of social isolation. Dumbledore had been known to think of him as a quiet child, but the reason for that was his incessant desire to learn! After all, the mind was the greatest weapon in the art of warfare, and learning, whether through education, reading or experience, was the perfect way to sharpen the mind like a whetstone a sword.

"_Education is the kindling of a flame, not the filling of a vessel," _Socrates had written, and these words stuck with Voldemort throughout his attempt to rise to power. In short, he needed experience and wisdom just as he needed knowledge itself, a fact that was rammed down his throat when attempting to murder the Potter child. Even the thought of that pain was migraine-inducing, but learn from it he had. He had become wiser in his defeat and bided his time after returning to a body, rather than rush into war against Dumbledore, the Ministry, Potter and the rest of the establishment-worshipping lickspittles among them.

But then that old man... that virtuous, conniving, bespawling fopdoodle, had almost ruined everything. If Voldemort had one regret, it was not killing Albus Dumbledore at an earlier date. If he had a second, it had to be not sending Horace Slughorn to meet him shortly afterwards. However, the latter was more intelligent than Voldemort had given him credit for and had fled Hogwarts almost immediately after their little chat about Horcruxes. He proved to be a master of disguise, having never been found by Voldemort in his subsequent searches or in Death Eater raids, whether before _or_ after he failed to kill the Potter boy.

More to the point, Dumbledore discovered the truth about his Horcruxes before bringing the old Portions Master back to Hogwarts several years ago; he _had_ to have done after the fiasco with Voldemort's journal, the mishap that had earned Malfoy Senior weeks and weeks of sustained torture. He hadn't killed the man due to a shortage of underlings, but had attempted to arrange his son's death by sending the boy to kill Dumbledore, with a shred of hope that the deed could actually be accomplished. It was, surprisingly, a successful endeavour, but by the traitor known as Severus Snape in an act of pre-planned double-crossing, another of Voldemort's failings. He only knew of this because Potter had taunted him with the knowledge some months ago, and it was then that he truly regretted having a master of Occlumency as his chief spy, rather than a competent insect animagus or another polyjuiced double like Barty Crouch.

In short, he had made mistakes. Many, many mistakes, some small and some big and others gargantuan, given his own standards. He admitted to himself that Potter had hit him where it hurt on multiple occasions, _hard._

Perhaps the biggest mistake of all was not turning a pebble into his final Horcrux and throwing it to the depths of the Pacific Ocean, artefacts of the Founders be damned.

Still, he had rectified that issue nicely before attacking Hogwarts by discovering how to transfer Horcruxes from object to object. Nagini would be missed, but she was nothing save an animal, and even people were expendable creatures, for the most part. Thus, he had feigned death – even he could not outduel several hundred people at once – and escaped after his _body_ was moved to a quieter area and the fools celebrated his demise. Thankfully, the killing curse did not destroy the body, only the connected soul, so it was a simple matter of re-inhabiting this vessel rather than the fuss of having to possess meagre flora and fauna in the depths of Albania for over a decade. The genius of the entire action was that the spell could also not destroy _Horcruxes,_ which is why the soul fragment hidden in his false tooth was quite safe for the time being. He would move it to a safer place as soon as he could find one, of course, given that the philistine Potter was unpredictable and could attack him with a sword dipped in Basilisk venom as quick as fire a tickling curse in his direction.

_Perhaps the bottom of the Shivering Sea, _he reflected, as he sipped on Arbor wine and basked in glorious sunshine. It was a fine day in this part of the world, and he was truly grateful to be alive, even with immortality at risk. He wanted to be immortal _because_ of that love for the pleasures of life, perhaps even more so than for the fear of nonexistence known as death.

Voldemort stretched his arms and legs in a dignified manner and quickly applied a glamour charm to his face as he saw the man approach. It was a direct replica of the face he had bore prior to the creating of Horcruxes, one that was both handsome and friendly, traits that matched the persona he made sport of. It was a necessary disguise, given the circumstances; the people of Westeros and Essos were primitive, bearing no knowledge of magic and not even beyond rudimentary Muggle technologies. A face such as his would illicit such fear that he might never achieve his goals.

"I have thought on your proposal," said Viserys Targaryen. "We need to discuss it further before I can make any decision."

Voldemort gave a smile and raised his glass mockingly. "By all means, my prince. Do sit."

Viserys did not care for his tone but did as he was bidden, fearful of the man's power. It was unnatural in his eyes, even to one with the blood of the dragon, Voldemort knew. Viserys snapped his fingers in the direction of a slave girl and waited for her to bring him wine before motioning for her to leave. He sipped the fine red and watched Voldemort carefully.

Finding Westeros was perhaps the greatest achievement of his entire life, although he couldn't take credit for the discovery. The Unspeakables – it always seemed to be that group who made the important discoveries – had tampered with the Veil of Death after that fool Sirius Black's demise and uncovered the existence of other worlds beyond their own. Essentially, the Veil functioned as an execution device because it had been unconnected to these alternate realities, instead sending the condemned into complete nothingness. Given that fact, there would be no Sirius Black and no other executed criminals hidden in Westeros, he thought, cackling as he did so.

"I have given up on my own world," said Voldemort, smiling through his facial enchantments as he held his glass lightly. He had grown so accustomed to the face of a snake that this mask felt rather uncomfortable.

Part of his newfound wisdom (suffering a crushing defeat a second time can cause a person to scrap their plans and retreat for survival's sake) was the realisation that people were people. Magical, Muggle... it made no difference to someone of his calibre and power. He had the strength to change the entire world for good or not and did not need feckless servants to fight his wars against Ministry fobs and the sycophants of Dumbledore's Order when they were no longer a threat. Here, in Westeros, they did not exist, so the threat was nonexistent. It was a trite realisation, but one that had kicked him in the teeth after that humiliation in Scotland.

Oh, he harboured no delusion about Potter; the boy would come for him before long if he had not already, but that was all. The general lack of magic ensured that there were no others who could oppose him in this land, which made it the perfect place to rule almost entirely unopposed on a personal level.

However, he now wanted more.

"I will not be returning," he continued. "The curs of home shall remain there, bar those who decide to follow. More the fools they. The boy does not yet know it, but I have placed enchantments throughout Westeros which shall prevent others from following him through the Veil so long as I live."

His repulsive connection with Potter made that possible; tampering with the magic of the portal after stripping the knowledge of how to do so from Croaker's mind gave him much leeway into... ah... fucking with Potter's schemes, but he could not stop him outright. He had figured out how to give 'permission' for travelling through the Veil, ensuring that no other could follow because he, naturally, refused them, but the boy could follow as the portal 'recognised' him as a part of Voldemort, even with the soul fragment in his scar destroyed. Priori incantatem.

Moreover, he had only used this trick after arriving in Westeros, so as to lure Potter into a false sense of security. If he knew there was no backup coming, he might not have followed in the first place, and Voldemort didn't want that. Oh, no. Not at all.

They had a score to settle.

"It is just the boy and I now," Voldemort laughed, "although I shall admit he is a powerful foe. Nonetheless, I hold certain advantages... ones that you need not concern yourself with... and he will be woefully ignorant of the workings of this land when he arrives."

Westeros was the first 'other world' he had travelled to, but after uncovering the mind-boggling size of just that one island, he had decided to close the world off to other travellers and instead led the Order on a wild goose chase through the other dimensions, allowing him to periodically return to the magnificent land when they were not looking and learn more about it as he did so. That was why the Order could not have accessed this world even if he hadn't stolen the stones.

Which he had. He planted others for them to find when it came time to lead Potter into his trap.

Potter could have followed him if he had known the truth, due to their connection, but as a part of a 'team' he wouldn't have dared go off alone. Voldemort laughed as he thought of the two boys he had left to die in a storm of their own Fiendfyre. What needless losses for the Order they had been.

"He will continue to track me until one of us dies, but I will ensure that is him and not I," said Voldemort. "I have taken everything from him – his family, his home, his hope for the future... I am baiting him into a trap."

Indeed, killing the younger Weasley bitch before escaping Hogwarts had been particularly satisfying. Potter had taken his Horcruxes away, and he had retaliated in stupendous fashion.

"His one advantage _was_ the strength in numbers, but I have rendered that idea null and void. He is alone now, and I am the more skilled practitioner of magic. In single combat, he has not a hope of defeating me."

Viserys nodded at these words, although it was clearly he did not understand their meaning. He would be a terrible ruler, if left unchallenged. What he did not understand could fill a dozen books, and what he _did_ understand would only cause the realm to bleed.

The point about numbers aside, Voldemort's biggest advantage took the form of the final Horcrux, but he wasn't about to tell a single person, living or dead, about its existence. He couldn't create more due to the destabilising of his soul from past attempts, so it was vital that the information be kept secret, not that he feared the peasants of Westeros any more so than Potter's Order. Potter _did_ have the Elder Wand, but it was not unbeatable, given Dumbledore's defeating of Grindelwald. It seemed many people overlooked that little fact, but not him. No, he had only wanted it for a power boost, which Potter now bore.

Of course, the boy's sickening moral compass could have him snap the blasted thing in half and toss it into a ravine, but Voldemort rather suspected those same morals would have him put the wand back with Dumbledore's body. It was irrelevant. He could not afford to underestimate Harry Potter any longer. The boy had destroyed most of his Horcruxes, had supposedly killed plenty of remaining Death Eaters when not chasing Voldemort through the portal over the past few years, and was likely rather bloodthirsty after the death of his beloved at Voldemort's hands. Even speaking with the boy – nay, the man – and duelling him was evidence of these changes. He was now as ruthless as he had once been noble.

"I also have the knowledge of Westeros that is required to take total control of the Iron Throne," he said, his voice as sweet as honey. It was an act, but it was, ironically, less of one than his losses of control and fits of rage. In truth, he kept his emotions under control... except in the case of serious failure, as Malfoy could attest to. He almost sighed as he realised that Viserys would likely need a lesson or ten in pain before he was of any use. For his part, the Targaryen heir was looking at him with a sneer of royalty that Voldemort desperately wanted to wipe clean. He decided against this for two reasons.

Firstly, the prince was his best shot at ruling the Iron Throne without having to murder the entire court or sustain hundreds of Imperius Curses each and every day. The former _was _tempting, but the people of the realm, pissants as they were, would decry the act and rise up in arms, or so he thought. Secondly, he wanted new servants, and there was a chance Viserys could be shaped into something useful with enough practice.

"Do you have a plan for helping me regain my crown?" Viserys asked, around a mouthful of the bread and cheese Illyrio had set aside for the two of them.

"You have yet to have it for the first time," Voldemort pointed out with a cold smile.

"It is mine by right!" Viserys declared, indignant.

"I am aware," said Voldemort, bored with the prince. He was not worth the effort of attempting to mock. "As I said previously, I plan to help you so that I myself can gain greater power."

He had spent the years following the Battle of Hogwarts leading Potter and his friends on a merry dance throughout the realities, all the while amassing knowledge of Westeros when they weren't looking, for one reason: it was a game, all a game. Potter had stolen his queen and destroyed all of his pawns and other foot soldiers, but he, the king, was very much active on the board. Potter's group had become more cautious after losing those two to the fiendfyre, but he had no interest in collapsing realities around them anyway. Potter would see the loss of his pieces and move in, before falling victim to a counterattack.

Yes, he wanted Potter to follow him. He wanted to kill Potter. He wanted to rule after doing so. The satisfaction of the act had to be second only to the importance of retaining immortality, given all of the pain the man had caused him over the years. An _Avada Kedavra _was good enough for this situation for the sake of the latter, but it wouldn't _feel_ good at this late stage.

"Perhaps most importantly of all, I am somewhat offended by the idea that the throne has been usurped. I am, after all, a firm believer in the importance of blood purity. You may not see it, but I assure you that the principle is the same. You and I are of one mind, and that is why we shall rule Westeros together. I oft professed to hate non-magicals such as you, but the truth is far more complex: I am superior, but I do not doubt the powers of simpler people."

"You are saying you have no desire to slaughter the plebs of the land, but I would not begrudge you that action," Viserys spat. "All things considered. If you have such power, why should you care about a simple game of thrones? By _your_ count, you could bewitch the entire populace of King's Landing and take control for yourself in the span of a single breath."

"That idea wearies me," said Voldemort, although it was an overestimation of his confidence anyway. He wouldn't dispute that a surprising sword thrust could cause some serious damage. "Holding power over half a million people would be akin to puppetry on a massive scale. I have no interest in ruling a collection of dolls for the rest of eternity; I want to maintain control of men and women and have them revere me, as they should you. Support of a powerful family – the _right_ family – will earn me that love without the usage of magic."

"Fear is stronger than love," said Viserys.

"Yes, it is," Voldemort nodded. "But too much fear will eventually lead to uprising, as I myself discovered, and as great men of history note. A mixture of fear and love will keep the peace, and those are achieved in tandem by fair, yet just, ruling. I could burn the city to the ground with a single spell, but then what would be left to rule? I could slaughter the knights of the Seven Kingdoms in droves, but to what end? Walder Frey would likely have them replaced in a fortnight from his breeches."

Viserys smirked. "Traitors will be punished. I shall be king, but you... you can rule as my Hand for the rest of your life, if you so desire. There will be no power struggle between the two of us."

"I could control you with the _Imperius_ curse and rule for myself," Voldemort leered, "but I won't. That is, again, rule through magic. I want to rule through intelligence and wisdom, simply because it is my right to stand above lesser people."

And thus, Voldemort would use magic to earn his position and to hold it, but he would not use magic to _control_ his position. He would use his wit and intelligence. There was more to the greatest dark wizard of all time than a simple display of duelling prowess; a man did not reach such prowess in the first place without having the intelligence with which to do so. His reasons were more complex than this, but a fool such as Viserys had no place knowing the inner secrets of Lord Voldemort.

"I don't seek to be king outright," said Voldemort, fighting to keep his face straight at the idea of serving another, lesser man. "I would be honoured to rule at the side of a worthy family. Blood matters. The peasants will not accept the rule of an unknown quantity and I refuse to steal another's face in my pursuit of power."

Indeed, Voldemort would use his intelligence to bring this stupid, power-hungry little boy to the throne, and next he would use it to show the people who would be the better king between the two. When the dust settled, Viserys and his sister would be dead, and Voldemort would be in control, with their full approval. It would be a satisfying conclusion that would earn him the adoration of the people, and then he could use his knowledge of Wizarding politics and even Muggle ones to turn the entire kingdom into his personal playpen. Perfect.

It was not that Voldemort had grown tired of magic; after all, magic was one of the things which propelled him to the top of society and which infused in him a sense of entitlement. He was the most gifted sorcerer alive and it made him greater than any Muggle, living or dead, by default. It was simply more satisfying, the idea of bringing an entire world to its knees through the power of thought and speech alone, minus the magic he would use. He would just not murder without cause. That had cost him dearly in his first war against Dumbledore, re the Potters. Likewise, he would destroy no cities... unless provoked.

This was all as to why he had chosen the Targaryens – they were the rightful claimants of the Iron Throne insofar as blood had it, and he would not give power to usurpers when blood demanded otherwise. Mudbloods and halfbloods had no place in the affairs of purebloods in any reality. He was above the Targaryens, but they were above every other family in Westeros. Hierarchy had to be maintained.

He could _imperius_ King Robert and have him declare Viserys as the rightful king, but that would lead to full-blown civil war throughout the land, so it was off the table.

"Then I would be happy to have you as my Hand," said Viserys, appearing satisfied. "Perhaps a marriage to my sister can be arranged when the time comes, although this business with the Dothraki... is there a need for it now?"

"There is no need," Voldemort replied, as he tried not to gag at the idea of marriage. He would do it if need be, but had no means to produce an heir... not that he wanted one. Children existed to replace their parents after death, and he was to live forever. "However, you would benefit from the strength of a Dothraki or Unsullied army. That being said, the peasants may see it as somewhat... brash."

"What?"

"Bringing an army of savages to their home."

"Bah, piss on them," Viserys spat. He took a gulp of wine and slammed his glass down. "I have endured seclusion from my birthright – _my throne!_ – because of usurpers and cowards and traitors! If I must burn their villages to the ground and execute a million of their ilk to prove who is in control, I shall."

Voldemort listened as Viserys grew angrier and angrier with each passing word.

"My father should have burned them all alive with wildfire! The first thing I'll do when I take power is bring together Robert Baratheon, Ned Stark and Tywin Lannister – and his dear, traitor son – and have the four of them immolated! An army of 'savages' would serve me well in making my point."

"I have no doubt," said Voldemort, although the fool missed the sarcasm. Very well, then. He would not pay a lout such as Viserys homage by ravaging the countryside that he wished to rule, especially not when that was the task of servants, so the man could have his army and enjoy the slaughter of thousands in his own time if he so desired. It wasn't as if Voldemort were pressed for time himself – he had an eternity to look forward to, and he would face Potter before long as well. As soon as the boy set foot in King's Landing, if he headed there, Voldemort would know it. Either way, if he had arrived or whenever he did, he could search all of Westeros for Voldemort and would come up short.

"Pentos is quite a serene place," Voldemort remarked, watching the sea nearby. "I must thank Magister Illyrio for his services. When you come into your crown, it would be prudent to reward him for his loyalty."

"Yes, a young bride to fuck and enough gold to drown in," Viserys remarked. "I shall need a wife whenever I become king, someone loyal to the Targaryen name. I hear Doran Martell has a daughter who may be acceptable, and his family has never forgiven the murder of my brother's wife and children."

"First you shall need to attain the crown," Voldemort pointed out, trying not to growl. To dispel the temptation of _cruciatus_, he said: "Come, tell me about this army you desire."

"Then so I shall," Viserys smirked. "Let us discuss this matter more thoroughly."

Voldemort did not speak to Daenerys that night. The young girl irritated him; she was weak and prone to following her brother's every whim, so he tended to avoid her snivelling as much as possible. True, the child could grow into a person of great strength, but at thirteen she paled in comparison to the likes of Potter's fourteen year old self when they had fought at Little Hangleton. He did not need her for his plans.

It was only later, on the day of her wedding to Khal Drogo, that he realised the folly of his ignorance towards Daenerys Targaryen.

* * *

**:Author's Notes: **

This chapter contains a lot of exposition, but it's for a very good reason: I want to redefine the character of Lord Voldemort for this story. I promised you all that this iteration of Voldemort would be vastly more interesting than his canon counterpart, and I think this has taken the first, small step towards achieving that goal. Furthermore, this is an evolution of his character, not a direct reshaping. Voldemort was _humiliated _by a trio of _children_ in Deathly Hallows, and he is having to rethink his entire worldview as a result. This is basic psychology, something that even his Horcruxes do not immunise him against.

I always hoped that Voldemort would fight Harry one-on-one in the series. I am one of the biggest critics of that final canon showdown in the entire world, for reasons I won't go into at present, but Voldemort's ego demands satisfaction in this story.

Oh, and he hasn't forgotten about ruling the Wizarding World. He has simply shelved the idea because of his newer, more immediate goal. The former is still there.

Voldemort having greater control of the portal is something for another time. He and Harry tend to mock each other a lot, so expect to see a lot of insults and claims of intellectual superiority when they eventually meet again, including that one on Voldemort's part. It's not a huge deal anyway, but I'll save it for later.

Lastly, a point of interest: Harry calls Voldemort a coward for running. Voldemort calls himself intelligent for developing respect for a foe he once underestimated because of inexperience. I'll let you decide who is right, if either.

'Bespawling fopdoodle' is my new favourite insult in the English language.

The whetstone analogy is a reference to Tyrion's words towards Jon Snow.

Aaaaaaaaaaand scene!


End file.
